Catwoman: The Year of the Bat
by Gemminycricket
Summary: Batman has disappeared and Gotham is in need of its vigilante hero. Catwoman, driven by a desire for revenge, takes on the guise of the Bat. Clad in the cape and cowl, and working alongside Batman's greatest allies, has she bitten off more than she can chew? And what might she discover about Batman, Gotham City, and herself, that will change her life forever?
1. Chapter 1

There's a chill in the air in Gotham tonight, the breeze harsh against my cheeks and lips as I leap from rooftop to rooftop. Lights stream down from above; helicopters circling almost constantly, watching the empty streets below. Sirens scream out, the sound fading in and out the closer and farther the police cars travel during their patrols.

Gotham City is lifeless these days, the familiar sense of wrongdoing missing from the air. But it wasn't always like this. Before the rein of the bat began, the city was rife with the sound of gunshots, tires squealing and the occasional scream from behind closed doors.

These were the sounds that I had grown accustomed to; the crimes behind them as much a part of Gotham as the architecture.

And I didn't mind.

I could walk the streets at night and feel a peculiar sense of ease. Undoubtedly because petty crimes do not scare me. How can they when I have witnessed the desperation behind every liquor store robbery? In every minor drug offence? In every rich person cornered in an alley for their pearls? In all my years living here, suffering just as they have, I've learned that the poor did things not out of spite, or intention to brutally harm, but out of fear for their own survival.

Below my feet are buildings with no tenants, the homeless merely bunkering inside to combat the cold. The jewellery stolen from the rich are sold so a single mother's children could eat. The money taken from the corner store is used to feed a drug addiction because it's easier to survive with it than without; in a city where nobody wishes to put out a helping hand.

I keep running, using my whip to pull myself safely across to the next rooftop, climbing fire escapes higher and higher under the cover of the night. Heavy clouds obscure me from the spotlights dancing above me, the fog too thick for the lights to penetrate. Not that it matters. I'm too fast for them; moving from one place to the next with the greatest of ease, scaling the walls with practiced hands. And all too soon I am standing across from the GCPD rooftop, still concealed by the shadows. And then I wait.

It would come tonight.

At midnight the bat symbol would appear amidst the clouds. Always on the dot midnight; like clockwork. Every night I would wait here and count down the seconds until it appeared. It's unusual to say the least. Until recently, there had never been such a clear pattern. More unusual, still: Batman never came.

Gotham wasn't always like this. The police didn't always scour the streets top to bottom. Not before Batman. Before him, crime was purposely overlooked; the police needing the mob to help keep money in their own pockets. It didn't matter who they hurt in the process. They had positions of power and they used them to their own advantage. Which is why I trust them less than the thugs on the streets and why I never approached one with all my curiosity. Though I'm sure with the right flirtation or enough money slipped into the right pockets, I could find out everything I wanted to know and then some. But something more held me back. Beyond the mistrust, I think I was scared of the truth. I was afraid that Batman may never return from wherever he had gone.

I only had to wait a few short moments before the floodlight was switched on and the bat appeared in the sky. Keeping my gaze fixed upon the rooftop, I observe Commissioner Gordon pace back and forth, his head down, a lit cigarette between his lips. I'd noticed he had started smoking again, a habit he maintained only in times of immense stress. It isn't a hard guess as to what's causing his concern. Each night he seemed to pace in hopes that the Batman would appear whenever his back was turned, and as he reached into his coat to light another cigarette, it became clear his hope had once again diminished.

I don't leave until the commissioner has gone back inside, the light left on for all of Gotham to see. Shining like a beacon of warning: threatening those that may dare to commit a crime. I've heard the symbol represents a beacon of hope for Gotham's law-abiding citizens. A sign that Batman is near, always fighting to keep them safe. How would they feel were they to learn they're being fed false hope? An empty promise. Because in truth, he watches over none of us. Not even those of us who know his true face. Not even me.

I feel ill at ease, made more so by Batman's failure to appear yet again. I'd assumed he and the commissioner were close (whatever that meant- it's hard to understand what he defines as friendship). At most I know Batman wouldn't leave Gordon in the dark like this for so long. It has to mean something. Something important. And I can't just sit by and wait for the truth to find its way to me.

If he refuses to show up for the police, I will just have to find him myself.

Recently, I had forgotten the thrill of the heist. It just isn't quite as fun when there isn't any risk of being caught. Something about feels hollow when there are no rules to be broken, or when there's nobody worthy enough to impress. Without being chased from the scene of the crime it tends to feel like taking candy from a baby. The rich would sleep soundly in their beds, knowing what lay outside but never believing it would make its way into their extravagant homes. I could take what I wanted knowing it barely made a dent in their wealth; it's a wonder how they even notice what's missing.

Tonight, there is no rush of adrenaline, and my actions feel unpleasantly empty. But if anything, or rather, anyone, can lure him out, it's me; and so I creep through the unlocked window of the mayor's home. Slowly, I lower myself down from the windowsill, and I find myself slightly disappointed when no alarms go off.

How boring.

Where are the motion sensors? The security cameras? Are they really so naïve as to think that their status alone will keep them safe from Gotham's forgotten children? From the very people who they let starve while their wealth overfeeds them? This adventure is quickly diverting away from the goal I sought to accomplish. Whether Bruce decides to make an appearance or not isn't so much a concern anymore. Instead, I'm overcome by a need to steal. It doesn't matter what I take, as long as it's something they'll miss. Something that'll teach them that they can't keep out those they try to overlook. I'll make sure they remember me. Hell, I may even let them see my face first. Why not make it all the more interesting?

With no current threat of detection, I realise that I'll have to try a little bit harder. Thinking fast, I figure the mayor's leading lady must have a diamond or two laying around. With no more than a lock on the front door to secure their home, I highly doubt they would keep their valuables locked away in a safe. It is laughable how they wrongly assume their good fortune protects them from the truth of this city, assures them safety from Gotham's dark reality. For them, the world has been glazed over and they see it like they're looking through a fogged window.

All of life's contradictions and inequity aren't real to them and probably never have been. It's so absurd, it can only be arrogance. Ignorance would be a far too forgiving excuse.

I make my way towards the stairs, my footsteps softened by the carpet. I flip my night vision goggles down over my eyes, lighting up my surroundings. The living room is void of personality, everything from the walls and furniture is the same shade of beige making it all blur into one another. Not so much as a family photo adorns the main wall, giving off the impression that nobody lives here. But the snores resonating from upstairs tell me otherwise and so I continue onward, taking the stairs up to the second storey. I bypass the kids' rooms, not wanting to wake and frighten the young ones, and instead move straight into the main bedroom.

I don't bother to tiptoe around the bed, moving easily over to the jewellery box on the dresser. Despite my initial disinterest in my endeavours, the sight of those jewels makes my heart flutter with intense desire. The abundance of expensive necklaces and rings practically glitter in the dark, tempting me. These would be valuable were I to sell them to the right buyer; enough to keep me settled for a long time, and so I pocket them. Allowing the sounds of my movements to fill the room, I soon sense movement behind me. As to be expected. Or really, as I had secretly hoped.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" the mayor's gruff voice yells from the bed. His wife remains speechless, but I have no doubt she's awake, most likely gripping her husband's arm in terror. I don't need to look behind me to confirm this, instead I take this as my cue to leave. I need to make my escape before the mayor has the chance to call the police. It doesn't hurt to have a head start though I often find that I don't need it.

The window slides open easily, the space only just large enough for me to slip through, and then using the roof gutter to move along the wall, I hoist myself up onto the rooftop. I allow myself a moment or two to relax, waiting until I can hear approaching sirens before moving onwards.

The jewellery feels good in my pocket: heavy and rich. It's just a shame that I don't have much time to relish in the feeling, as I hear footfalls approaching me from behind. I hesitate for a moment, actually forgetting why I set out here in the first place. I'm not making myself difficult to find but very few people can keep up. So who exactly could be behind me, very quickly catching up? More importantly, who would want to follow me?

With a grin, I speed up my run. I have to make it fun for him. I hadn't realised just how much I had missed this little game of ours. I'm sure it drove him crazy for the most part, always chasing me from some kind of crime I had committed, and inevitably he would catch me and I'd be scolded. But I think there was always a part of him that enjoyed it. Why else would he let me go in the end? It was a part of him he didn't want to admit to. Maybe a smile he kept to himself until no one was watching. At least that is what I like to imagine. The truth could very well be less that of my dreams and more like something I'd see in my worst nightmares: maybe he simply did hate it.

Even still, I don't let down my run though I have no plans to let the game go on too long tonight. There is far too much catching up to do. Throughout this whole investigation into his mysterious disappearance, I had forgotten why I had been looking for him in the first place and all that he had to answer for. I'd forgotten just how furious I was supposed to be because finally, after all this time, he was here with me and that was all that mattered. His presence had that unfortunate effect on me though I'd never admit it to him. I'd sort of hoped that the time apart would change that, but alas, I have never been so lucky. I never look for feelings, but somehow they always seem to find me. And always at the worst of times and in the most unfortunate of places.

Unable to stop smiling, I slip through a broken window into an abandoned office, allowing the darkness to envelop me and I keep my back to him, trying desperately to contain myself before I can even think of facing him.

"I knew I could lure you out. How could you resist?" I say softly, a quiet laugh escaping my lips. I grab the back of an old, dusty desk chair and I roll it back behind me. "Take a seat. We have a lot to discuss."

I hear the squeak of the chair as weight settles down onto it and I find a seat of my own, sitting down with one leg crossed over the other. "First things first, where the hell have you been?" I question and finally turn to face him. It's been so long since I last saw his face.

And just like that, I feel like a deer caught in headlights.

I'm staring into the eyes of Nightwing, and boy does he look amused.


	2. Chapter 2

"You've never been this easy to catch, Catwoman. Very unlike you," he says with an arrogant smirk, "you wanted to be caught… but looking at your startled expression, I'm guessing it wasn't me you had in mind. If I liked you a bit more, I might be offended."

Suddenly the location is fucking humiliating. What place would have been better for Batman and me to reconnect and reminisce about our past? A place secluded, safe from prying eyes. Somewhere our secrets could be kept between us. The place where he had revealed his true identity to me. Bruce Wayne.

The room and all its history feels tainted now. Spoiled almost, by old boy wonder. It isn't mine and Bruce's anymore.

I cross my arms, feeling overly exposed. I'd let my fondness for Bruce take precedence to logic. If Batman wouldn't come back for Gotham, then he wouldn't come back for me. That was a silly girl's dream, and I should have known better. Nightwing must sense my disappointment as his smirk fades, turning into an uncomfortable frown and he swiftly gets to his feet.

"Batman wants to speak with you," he says, "the sooner the better so do try to keep up." He turns his back on me and, feeling ashamedly hopeful, I follow.

We don't speak as we travel through the city; I don't ask where he is leading me and he says nothing more about our embarrassing encounter. For that, I am grateful. I'd much rather forget that it had ever happened, and luckily, it seems to me that he is on the same page.

Eventually, he stops and holds a hand out towards me. "Before we go any further, I can bet that the mayor and his wife would like their jewellery back."

I don't make any effort to hand over the jewels, having grown attached to their beauty and the way they sit in my pocket.

"The alternative involves you with your hands in cuffs," he threatens, his hand still held out toward me.

"At least offer to buy me dinner first, kinky." I tease, but I'm pouting as it say it, knowing I have been backed into a corner and I'm not going to win this one. There isn't any point in trying to reason with him. He of all people, will never understand my point and he certainly will never agree. He mustn't feel any objection to how the rich so often take from the poor and never seem to give. I suppose it makes sense since he did grow up in Wayne Manor after all. Always under the wing of Bruce's inherited wealth.

He doesn't even blink, waiting impatient and unamused, prepared to take action if I refuse to cooperate.

Grudgingly, I dump the riches into his open hand and he tucks them away before moving forward, leading me down into a drainpipe. We tread through knee high water, the cold causing me to shiver even through my suit. Somehow, Nightwing doesn't seem as bothered as he walks ahead of me at a steady pace. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to the inconvenient pathway.

I know of at least two other entry points to the Batcave, both being similar to this one in that they are by no means easy to navigate. They were designed to blend into their surroundings, making it extremely difficult for intruders to find and impossible for them to follow directly into the cave.

"How many hidden tunnels does he have spread out over Gotham?" I ask, ducking under what I can only assume is an intentional obstruction. I see his shoulders tense, his back stiffening suddenly.

"I'd rather you didn't ask questions," he replies, his words polite, but his tone makes it clear that in his eyes I don't deserve access into Batman's life. I think he keeps his eyes cast away from mine because then he doesn't have to question why Bruce will turn to me when he won't face anyone else. For a while, he won't have to think about the fact that Bruce trusts me far more than he should. But what Nightwing doesn't understand is that I know just as well as he does that Bruce has many secrets he will never divulge to anyone, not even me. I know that breaking through some of Batman's emotional walls doesn't mean I've made it to the man barricaded inside.

Finally, we reach a cross point in the pipe but instead of following any of the pathways, Nightwing grapples upwards into a hole that, at first glance, shouldn't fit a fully grown man, but he somehow manages it with ease. I follow suit, but with a little less elegance and grace, and together we walk the final stretch to the fence closing off the cave.

"Who's there? Show yourself," a distinctly British voice calls out and the barrel of a shot gun can be seen poking out through the fence wires.

"It's just me, Alfred," Nightwing says smoothly and the gun is lowered.

"The butler is your last line of defence? Seriously?" I laugh.

"Clearly, you've never seen him angry," Nightwing can't help but grin, walking past the older man comfortably.

"Ever shot anyone with that thing, old timer?" I ask, walking behind the two of them. Alfred keeps the shotgun gripped tightly in his hand.

"Anyone that has made it this far has run away screaming before I've had to. But there's a first for everything, Miss Kyle. So I wouldn't be calling anyone 'old timer' if I were you."

Nightwing smirks as he approaches the large computer console and activates the security protocol to verify his identity before allowing him access. I've been here a few times before, only once without invitation, and though just a few months have passed since my last visit, the changes to the technology look like advancements normally made in years.

I've tried hacking into the system before, but unlike my attempt to get into the cave, I hadn't been successful. It was like it knew down to the final hair on their head who had clearance to the monitor and who didn't, and there was no fooling it. I'd certainly tried. From false fingerprints to prescription contacts to replicate Bruce's eyes (which were incredibly difficult to get a hold of, since the man, out of intense paranoia, does everything his wealth and skills allow to conceal his identity); it all proved to be futile. After so many infuriating attempts I had grudgingly given up and admitted defeat. Which was a shame since I hated passing on a well paid job but I couldn't face the client empty handed. To this day I can't be sure as to whether Bruce is aware of my failed attempt to steal his secrets. There's a chance he has known for a long time and is simply waiting to use that fact as ammunition in a future fight of ours. It's not like he hasn't done that before.

"Master Bruce has been awaiting your return," Alfred says to Nightwing who just shrugs.

"Not patiently, I imagine," he says. I recognise a little spite in his tone.

Alfred must hear it too as he simply replies with, "you imagine correctly."

I go to touch the console but retract my hand once I see Nightwing giving me a warning look. With a sigh, I turn away and look around at the cave. Aside from the monitor, little else has changed. Up the stairs, old Batman and Robin suits line the walls, encased in glass. Only one suit is displayed in its own case, its fabric is charred, torn and blood splattered. Bruce never brought it up and so I never asked. I didn't need to. I knew he had lost a Robin once, but I never knew the boy's real name; I wasn't even sure if I had ever actually met him face to face. But if the remnants of that suit could make shivers run down my spine, then I could only imagine how much it haunted Bruce.

I turn to look at an assortment of gadgets that are strewn across work tables, most still in deconstructed pieces that had yet to be put together. "What will these be for?" I ask out of curiosity, trailing my fingers along what I think may be an improved voice synthesizer.

"That's classified," Nightwing responds, not even bothering to look over in my direction. I've done nothing to earn his trust, but damn him for not giving it to me anyway. I huff and move back to his side and watch the monitor. Suddenly a bat symbol appears on the screen and Bruce's voice fills the room.

"Selina. I have a request for you."

"Yeah, hello to you too, Bruce," I mutter. I'd forgotten how blunt he could be. He often wasn't one for chit chat.

"Hello." He sounds awkward and uncommitted, almost as if the effort it takes to utter the word is equivalent to swallowing glass.

"Never mind," I sigh, "manners don't suit you. What do you want?" I hold off from what I truly want to know. 'Where have you been?' 'Why did you leave me?' 'Do you know what he did to me?' 'Do you care?' I'm afraid he may actually answer honestly. I don't think I'd like what I'd hear.

"I want you to listen very carefully. And I don't want you to say no right away."

"I'm listening," I say after a moment or two of apprehensive silence.

"I need you to be Batman."

Silence hangs over the room, and none of us move for what feels like the longest time.

Alfred is the first to speak, clearing his throat hesitantly.

"Do you think this a wise choice, Master Bruce?"

If the request wasn't so absurd, I'd consider being offended by Alfred's doubts about me. I'm not stupid and I'm not weak. But that didn't make me qualified to be Gotham's protector. My skill set made me the world's greatest thief, not a candidate for the Batman identity.

"Bruce... this is ridiculous. Gotham needs a Batman. Not just anyone can do that," Nightwing says.

Again, I can't even be annoyed at the implication that I'm not capable.

"Selina isn't just anyone," Bruce responds simply, "I need her to be Batman and you're going to train her the best you can before returning to Blüdhaven."

Just like that an argument erupts between Nightwing and Batman. Alfred and I just look at each other, still too overwhelmed to interrupt. It is a few minutes before they stop, Nightwing's chest still heaving with deep breaths after his outburst.

"Umm, while the offer is flattering... and utterly bizarre. I think I'm going to have to pass. You should pick Nightwing instead, he clearly wants it," I tell him.

Nightwing turns to me abruptly, his eyes crazed with what I can only imagine is a hybrid of outrage and indignity. "I don't want it! I'd never want that. I'm just being realistic here. I have the training and the experience; and I do mean offence when I say that, unlike you, I have some moral integrity."

"No offence taken, love," I glare at him, the word _love_ passing through gritted teeth with a hiss.

"You steal for a living. What exactly do you expect me to say about this… well, I can only describe it as a preposterous idea?"

"I'm not arguing with you so there's no need to be so defensive. Want it, don't want it, it doesn't matter. It's yours. I'm not taking it."

"I think that settles it," Alfred says, appearing exhausted by this whole conversation. "We are not going to force Miss Kyle into anything."

"I would like to speak to Selina alone," Bruce says and the two men hesitate before going upstairs.

Nightwing's voice echoes down the stairs. "Don't touch anything while we're gone."

"Sweetheart, I can't promise anything," I purr hoping that by feigning confidence I'll start to truly feel it.

But I still find myself wishing for them to come back, their presence an unusual and unexpected comfort in a place like this. Right now, I have nobody to argue for me, nobody to stop me from giving in.

"Selina. I know what happened to you," Bruce says gently.

I can only reply with a pathetic, "oh."

"I sense you're no longer angry at me," he continues, urging me to respond with something more.

"Nobody has seen you in weeks. After so long I figured you weren't just punishing me. You weren't there because you couldn't be, not because you wouldn't. Though at first I was so angry I could have killed you had you shown your face."

"You wouldn't have. Even if the circumstances were what you thought."

I laugh, the sound void of humour. I hate it when he is right. I hate it even more how he always reminds me when I'm wrong.

"Why can't I see you?" I ask. I don't want to talk about what happened. I just need him to know without having me utter the words. More importantly, I need him to understand. I need him to reassure me and convince me that it wasn't my fault. I've tried, and I can't convince myself. There's too much evidence against me.

"It's... complicated," he avoids the subject, "I know what happened to you and I know what you plan to do."

"Is this the part where you try to stop me?"

"No. Not this time. I just want you to do it right. If you cross that line, I won't be able to forgive you."

"I'm not looking for your permission, Bruce. Your forgiveness is the furthest thing from my mind."

My words seem to sink in, the lie digging into both of us like thorns. I want but don't expect his forgiveness for what lies ahead, so I seek his understanding, if his empathy will allow it.

"If you do this, I will have to take you down. Do you understand?"

"You said you weren't trying to stop me," I huff, my frustration bubbling to the surface. Whatever we had between us means less to him than his incorruptible pursuit for justice. I think he has forgotten what it means to be human. Humans _are_ corrupt. They're greedy and violent, they enjoy watching and inflicting pain, and we take back from those that try to break us.

But we love too. Fiercely.

He can't seem to recognise this. Maybe he hasn't forgotten. You can't forget what you never knew.

"Don't chase after revenge, it will be the death of you," he pleads, "I'm offering you this chance, Selina, to embody justice and take down those who dared hurt you."

I hesitate, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The rage hasn't stopped consuming me since that day, the memories endlessly abusing me inside my own head. The images of all that blood and pain burning behind my eyelids each time I closed them. Nothing has extinguished the anguish and I'm prepared now to run headlong into it.

I don't let any of this pass my lips, instead I force a smile and ask, "Do I get to drive the Batmobile?"

"Selina, that's not really the..."

"Do I?" I interrupt, clenching and unclenching my fists reflexively. Everything I have been working to repress is forcing itself back into my mind, clawing and tearing at the wall I had built between me and it. I need to get away.

"You'll have access to all modes of transportation and gadgets. Once you've been shown how to use them."

"That's all you had to say," I mumble, turning away from the monitor so he can't see the single tear that slips down my cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're not thinking before you act," Nightwing lectures.

I'm crumpled up on the ground, my clothes clinging to my sweat stained body. Already I can feel every muscle and joint aching, a pain pounding furiously inside my head. I didn't expect the training to be so rigorous and unforgiving right off the bat, but here I am: struggling to breathe and unable to get back on my feet. We've been practicing combat on and off for five hours now, the intervals being only a few minutes to rehydrate. With every approach, Nightwing, whose name I have learned is Dick Grayson, has easily rebuffed me, hitting hard and pinning me down.

He reaches down and grips my hand, pulling me back onto my shaky feet when I don't peel myself off the floor.

"Just...give me a minute," I mutter, holding my side. Never before have I exhausted myself like this.

"You're going to be in the bat suit, you're going to have that added weight of the cape and utility belt. They're going to come at you with the hardest hits they have and they won't stop until they put you down or you put them down first," Dick tells me, sweaty but barely out of breath. "Sometimes you'll be out there on only an hour or two of sleep, starving, in pain from the night before. Because that's what Batman needs to do. Do you understand?"

"I understand," I grumble, flustered and I take a long drink from my water bottle. It does little to quench my thirst and my throat remains dry and coarse, like sandpaper.

"Really? Because from what you've shown me today, I don't think you do. You throw yourself into the fight without sizing up your opponent and assessing the best approach. You've been fighting me for a few hours now, find a pattern, recognise my strengths and combat them. Okay?"

I don't respond, drinking more water, using this time to try and regain some strength. Nightwing's skills are refined, practiced, and while his movements can at times closely resemble Bruce's, he still has a style of his own. He's faster, more agile, clearly a gymnast. But I'm equally as nimble. If I make the right move upfront I can hold my own. Where he exceeds in agility and strength, he suffers from arrogance and impatience. Two traits that can prove fatal. In fighting me, he has already assumed what I am going to do well before I know that I'm going to do it. And until now, he had been right, as I had allowed myself to fall into the trap of predictability. I refuse to submit to _boring_ and so I think fast, moving toward the table and feigning reluctance to face him again.

As I put down my water bottle, I slip a smoke bomb into my hand and turn to peg it at his feet. The smoke erupts into a dark, dense cloud, shielding me from his gaze and causing him to choke. I can hear him spluttering and so I know I caught him off guard.

I overturn a table, sending assorted metals and devices flying across the room and the sound is startling. I rely on this, knowing full well that Dick will also, and I open a grate in the floor, silently slipping inside the gap with ease. The smoke is beginning to disperse, the room slowly comes back into view. Nightwing will see the overturned table and he will approach it with the assumption that I'm hidden behind it.

I crawl under the floor, careful to remain silent, until I am positioned behind him. It doesn't take him long to assess that I'm not there and his first response is to look up to the balcony above him where, had I wanted to, I could have jumped up. But this won't give me enough time to exit through the loose grate above my head and so I create a diversion. I take a bobby pin from my hair and flick it across the room, the sound is so soft that I barely hear it. But he does. He's listening for me.

He moves to investigate and I push open the grate, edging myself out swiftly and I attack while his back is still turned. I throw one arm around his neck from behind and kick against the back of his knee, causing his leg to buckle and he falls hard. I apply my entire body weight to his back but he manages to push himself up, throwing back his elbow into my ribs. My grip loosens and he overthrows me, rolling me to his left. Before he can pin me, I scurry across the floor, rolling across my shoulder into a kneeling position. He stands upright, chest heaving. I aim for a punch but then duck low, hitting his knee cap before throwing a hit upwards into his jaw. He's startled but still quick to retaliate, grabbing my wrist and twisting. I tug him forward before he can let go and thrust my shoulder up against his arm, forcing his hand off me. Perhaps a little overzealous, I go to strike a hit to his throat with all the strength I have and he catches my hand, his eyes wide.

"Woah, this is practice, remember? You're not trying to knock me unconscious. Or worse," he warns, refusing to let go until he can see that I have settled.

I slacken in his grip and nod quickly. He breathes a sigh of relief and takes two steps backwards. I grin, pouncing suddenly onto him and he falls, unprepared. I turn him over, successfully pinning him down, locking one of his arms painfully behind his back.

After a moment or two he taps out, choosing to discontinue his struggle against me. He stands up and brushes himself off, something akin to a smile on his face, and he nods his approval.

"It's an improvement. A good use of your surroundings," he says, taking this time to stretch and then relax his muscles. I may have hit him harder than practicing required but he doesn't scold me for it.

"You underestimated me," I say, admittedly pleased with myself. I feel I managed to redeem myself for previous failures and humiliations. That and it felt simply glorious to beat his ass, considering he has treated with nothing but dislike since I arrived. I consider it a fair punishment for the way he has doubted me, without even trying to be subtle about it.

"I did," he acknowledges, now picking up the table I overturned. "That was my mistake, and I won't be repeating it. Tomorrow we'll start on team training."

"You and I working as a team? That's a disaster waiting to happen."

"No, not you and me. You and Robin," Dick says, grinning. "A disaster, indeed."

I'm expected to make myself at home here in Bruce's mansion. Each room is elegant, expensive and somehow untouched by time. The pristine beige furniture, the unlit candles, and the extensive library consisting primarily of valuable first editions. The spotless carpet, the dust free, glittering chandelier and pretentiously large family portrait hanging over the fireplace.

Somehow it feels extraordinarily like Bruce whilst at the same time feeling nothing like him at all. It's this feeling that brings to the forefront of my mind the uncomfortable thought that I know him a lot less than I'd hoped. Just the grandness of this place overwhelms me, making my own existence inside it seem very, very small, and the more I look the more convinced I become that soon I won't exist at all.

I don't belong here and no matter how hard I try I can't convince myself otherwise. The history of his home won't allow it. It's a persistent reminder of who I am and who he is, and I can lie and steal all I like but I'll always be poor and he'll always be rich. So while he tells me to make myself comfortable, I'll always feel like an intruder here; someone trying and failing to blend in with the furniture.

"If there's anything I can get you, Miss Kyle, just ask," Alfred says. I hadn't heard him come into the room. "Though just know I'm offering sportingly, so try not to go overboard."

I force a smile, "I don't need anything, Alfred. I think I'm just going to take a shower."

Before he can respond I move up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, eventually finding my way to my own room and its adjoining ensuite. Even the bathroom is extravagant, everything down to the toilet paper holder screaming expense.

Since being here I've discovered an unfamiliar lack of compulsion. My kleptomania had subdued to near non-existent in a place where normally it would run rampant. Everything, though completely harmless, gave off the impression that if I were to touch it, I would be cut. It is all so overbearing, so unnecessarily splendid and luxurious and yet I couldn't take any piece of it. For the first time I'd feel like a thief for taking from those who had more than enough.

I shower slowly, staying under the spray of the water long after I'm clean, thinking it serves as some kind of shelter from myself. Even as I finally go to bed, covering myself with the safety of the blanket, I find no serenity.

I'm merely a tourist here, and I'm lost.

Nightwing differs from the big bad bat in a few ways. One way being that he knows how and when to play nice. He looks forward; doesn't let a grudge consume him the same way Bruce does. His distrust and general lack of fondness for me silently permeates the space between us, but his behaviour toward me is now that of a teacher. An impatient tutor, but still a teacher nonetheless. He has decided that no good will come out of digging up old disagreements. There's no purpose in fighting against me anymore. Instead, he'll keep me alive. I can't decide how much of this is just in his nature and how much of it is of Bruce's influence.

Dick follows orders the same way a moth is drawn to a flame; determined, almost desperate. He seeks Bruce's approval, so much so he will at times go against his own self-interests just to appease him. I doubt he will ever admit this to himself, being too stubborn and perhaps ashamed to concede that his father figure means more, if not everything, to him. He has fought against this truth before by stepping out of the Robin identity and into that of Nightwing. Yet here he is, teaching me how to use the batcomputer. No matter how hard he tries to be his own person he will always come when called upon, and he will swallow his own pride to do as Bruce bids him to.

Because isn't that what a good son does?

"We keep a record of all the cases we cover, from the minor to the extreme," Dick explains, pulling an example out of the existing archives. "The Red Hood gang disbanded a long time ago, but mentions of them arise from time to time, so it's useful to revisit their history."

"In case anyone ever decides to rebuild?" I ask.

"Exactly. There's always the occasional copycat. Though usually with them it's all in the details, since they want to accurately replicate their predecessor. When we know what to look for it's easier to find them and shut it down before it gets bigger than us."

"When Batman was early in his career he managed to shut down all of Falcone's imports and exports of weapons and drug money," I recall, eagerly seeking the relating files. "How big does something have to get to be bigger than him?"

"He shut it down only temporarily," Dick points out, "Falcone, I hear, is now rapidly rebuilding his business ventures. Though I suppose it has been underground for months. He prefers to deal counterfeit cash now, although none of his business partners seem to have caught on yet. He's testing the waters, checking the ship won't sink before he sets sail."

"That's why you need me, isn't it?"

"That's why we need you," he concedes, masking his aversion for the matter better than he had the day before. "The threat of Batman keeps a lot of criminals at bay, or at least it slows them down. It makes the everyday citizens that walk the streets a little bit safer. The longer Batman is away, the more chaos there will be."

"How long do we have to prepare?" I ask, aware that while I'm no stranger to chaos, I am still extremely ill-equipped to deal with what lays ahead. I need to be more than a fighter. Gotham requires more than my bloodied fists, it needs its symbol of hope. My morality has never exactly been in keeping with what the law deems just; my past a limitless string of crimes. But for all my wrongdoings, I can't bring myself to apologise for them, my regret lying more with what I didn't steal rather than what I did. It comes down to being more than just stolen possessions and unethical business partnerships with Gotham's worst. It's sympathising with the _'_ _wrong_ _'_ class of people. I see myself more in the city's criminals than I do in the police or in Batman, and this, I am sure, terrifies Dick. Just as much as it disgusts him. How can I be a symbol of justice when I still, despite Bruce's efforts, don't believe in it?

"It's hard to say," Dick murmurs, unaware he is rubbing one of his temples, assumedly attending to the pain that lingers there whenever he is stressed. "A few months… if we are lucky."

"When are we ever lucky?" I say, now looking at my own file. Unsurprisingly, it's extensive. Bruce has been following my trail for years, at times even beating me to the punch, expectantly awaiting my arrival. Eventually, he had gotten frustratingly good at predicting me.

I peruse our history, amazed at how many of our encounters I had forgotten. Amazed because I have, over time, made an effort to remember what I can about him. Not just the few words he has uttered, but also the way he looks at me. I have, in all our time together, seen his gaze turn from enraged to disappointed, rarely seeing anything akin to content. Except that one time in which I thought I saw the flicker of something deeper, something admiring and lustful. I thought, or at least I hoped, it was a glimmer of love. That's when I started paying more attention, seeking that look in his eyes.

Only, I have never found it again.

That entire night has been erased from my file. Or maybe he never recorded it. What this means, I do not know. With him, it could mean everything or nothing at all.

"I am ready to begin today's training," someone speaks from behind us, and I turn to find that the voice does indeed belong to that of a child. He stands, dressed in the Robin attire, with his posture resembling that of a soldier rather than a little boy. Not quite a teenager yet, his face still has a childlike roundness to it, his voice bordering between that of a man and a boy, and he can't stand at more than 4'10". Despite all this, he somehow manages to be intimidating. His eyes are dark, his stare so piercing it seems to cut straight into you. With a scowl to match, the new little boy wonder is not like the ones before him. He looks like he could kill. No. He looks like he _has_ killed.

"Selina, this is the newest Robin," Dick introduces, standing up. He approaches the kid and ruffles his hair in a brotherly fashion. Robin does not return the sentiment in any way. If anything, he seems more disgruntled. Dick chuckles fondly as Robin hastily flattens his hair. "Bruce managed to convince him to work with you. Admittedly with much kicking and screaming. He doesn't want to divulge his real identity to you, so don't bother asking."

"I should not have to reveal my real name to her," Robin says huffily, "all this nonsense about building trust. I will not partake. Not with her."

Dick grins, amused and he turns back to the monitor, preparing a holographic training simulation. If he weren't a little translucent, faint ripples of pixels running through him, you wouldn't believe that it wasn't the real Killer Croc. The hologram bears its teeth, a growl reverberating from its throat. The rough scales of its body are even uglier under the light, my own eyes having only ever seen him before in the shadow of the sewers. All that's missing is the odour that normally surrounds him: the stench of stagnant water and rotting flesh. I find that I can focus better without the smell assaulting my senses.

Robin is more prepared than I am, moving fast to make the first hit. He's good. But, like me, he throws himself into it without thinking ahead. I watch at first, observing. He can hold his own as well as I would have expected him to, those fierce eyes having told the truth. He could break all your bones and feel nothing. It's a brutality that sometimes even Bruce can't display.

"Selina, don't just stand there!" Dick snaps, his patience breaking, "you are meant to be working as a team."

Croc is ridiculously strong, his tough skin impenetrable, and the hits don't seem to harm him. With time, it may be possible to knock him unconscious, but between the two of us we don't have the stamina. He would eat us both before then. We have to find another way to incapacitate him, and I can only think to cut off his senses. Robin keeps fighting him, dodging Croc's counter attacks, keeping him distracted as I throw a small ball into his face. Upon impact, it explodes, releasing a thick tar that sticks, blinding him and muffling his sense of smell. Reflexively he reaches up, attempting to pull the substance from his face: trapping his own hands in it.

Unable to strike, he flails, his body still a threat and he follows the sound of our movements. However, it does slow him down. Clumsy, lost without his sight and sense of smell, Robin easily wraps a cord around Croc's legs, constricting it until he loses his balance and falls forward. For a moment, I stand, satisfied at our work, and then the next moment Croc is gone. The hologram vanishes as Nightwing exits the simulation. I laugh, adrenaline coursing through me in a tremendous wave. I hadn't expected it to feel this satisfying and suddenly all my previous doubts disappear. How much greater could the real thing be? Is this what always brought Bruce back for more?

I don't have much time to bathe in my exhilaration however, as Dick slams a fist down onto the counter. The sound echoes through the cave, sending an unexpected tremor through me.

"You used him as bait!" Dick exclaims, infuriated.

"How?" I can't help but sound defensive. I had felt proud of my efforts, acting as I thought Bruce would have had he been in the same fight. I had targeted Croc's weak points, using brains instead of brawn to take down a creature that had far more brawn to brains.

"You left him to exhaust himself out there," he struggles to keep his tone even, "had it been the real deal, Croc could have shattered him before you chose to intervene. You don't leave your partner to fight alone like that."

"I had it under control," Robin sniffs, unimpressed, "I didn't need her help. Croc is an idiotic beast, and even at his best I can take him singlehandedly."

Dick doesn't seem to believe him, his anger unwavering and he rubs his temples firmly, clenching his jaw possibly in an attempt to stop any profanities from passing his lips.

"You heard the kid, he had it under control." I won't allow myself to feel guilty when I did nothing wrong. "I think we handled it quite well. Considering I only just met him."

It's like Dick has forgotten that we are only training and that nobody could have gotten hurt, and had there been any real danger it was unlikely the kid would have been at risk.

There's a long silence, and Robin, clearly irritated at being underestimated, stalks up the stairs and out of the cave. As soon as he's gone, Dick's angry demeanour falters, crumbling into a look of hopelessness and exhaustion. "Bruce made me promise to look after him," he explains finally, "it's my job to keep him alive and I've nearly failed a couple of times."

"I find that hard to believe," I murmur, moving to sit beside him, "he has skills, he's strong-"

"And he's more impulsive than the two of us combined," Dick interrupts, "he's only just getting back into training after months recovering and it was my fault he got hurt in the first place. I don't think Bruce has forgiven me yet. Maybe he never will."

"That's why you've agreed to train me, isn't it? Trying to earn his forgiveness?"

Dick hesitates to answer, his silence telling me more than words ever could, but eventually he speaks. "After I let him down I didn't think he would trust me with anything. And then he asks me to train you, to do the best that I can to make sure you don't die out there. I'm not going to disappoint him again."

"You know… sometimes you are just like him."

"In what ways? Genius intellect? Master martial artist?" He tries on a self-assured smile but it doesn't seem to fit. He still just looks sad.

"Not quite… more your aggressive mood swings, the excessive brooding and you can be overly critical sometimes," I explain. Saying these traits aloud, I start to wonder why I like Bruce at all.

Dick cringes, running a hand through his hair. "Ouch. That hurts."

"Sorry. But it's the truth," I say, "like father like son."

"It's part of the reason why I went out on my own. I didn't want to live in his shadow anymore, being criticised at every turn-"

"And yet you always seek his approval," I point out, trying to understand.

I must have hit a nerve because he quickly stands up and turns off the monitor. "I think I've had enough of being psychoanalysed for one evening. Go rest up, and tomorrow we'll resume training."

With that he leaves, the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his past breaking him from the inside out.


	4. Chapter 4

The mansion feels like it is in a permanent state of abandonment, with an eerie silence filling every room. I never hear so much as a footfall in the halls, or the creak under someone's weight on the staircase. It remains perpetually empty despite there being five people residing under its roof. Somehow, this makes me less inclined to touch things rather than more. I never see anybody but that doesn't mean they don't see me. So I merely explore the grounds, allowing myself to drift from one room to the next, still trying to find the comfort Bruce offered. But so far it has continued to escape me.

He hasn't spoken to me since the first day. I don't know what this means. Unless Nightwing has been reporting to him behind my back, he doesn't seem to care about my progress. It's this silence that makes me think that perhaps my safety means less to him than theirs. He had welcomed me into his home but not his life which, out there on the streets of Gotham in his cape and cowl, could be the death of me.

At the end of the hall there is a locked door, a room in which I have never been before. In my travels I have happened upon Dick's room and Robin's (the day subsequent to that adventure I discovered a lock on his door), but never Bruce's. The idea of seeing where he spends his down time is suddenly so overwhelming that I pull out a lock pick and get to work on the bolt, not thinking of what I will do once I get in or what I will say if he is there.

"Miss Kyle," Alfred says, eyeing me down as I slowly stand upright. I must have been under his watch this whole time, but I'd never seen him following me.

"Alfred," I nod, tucking the lock pick back up into my sleeve.

"Master Bruce wishes to be left alone," Alfred states calmly, "he needs space in order to rest."

"Rest? Alfred, what happened to him?" I ask, surprised at the increase in my desperation, "Why did he disappear?"

Alfred is hesitant. The sadness that consumes him seems to age him somehow, the lines in his face deepening and the bags under his eyes drooping. His tired hands stiffen on the tray he is carrying, working hard to hold the weight of water and assorted pills that sit upon it.

"Prozac? Vicodin?" I ask, lifting the various bottles from the tray and inspecting them. They tell me he is in pain. They tell me he is struggling to get by on his own. Alfred won't meet my gaze. He doesn't dare look at me in the fear one of us will fall apart. "Alfred! Look at me! Where was he when I needed him? He is always there! Even when I don't want him… especially whenever I do."

"He's resting," he finally answers, speaking over a lump in his throat and he walks past me, pulling a key from his pocket. "You should be doing the same."

He opens the door as little as possible, allowing himself enough space to fit through before shutting it behind him and I hear the lock click as it turns. I could have pushed past him, could have thrown the door open as wide as it would go. But what then? I don't feel prepared to see whatever lays beyond that door, now that I know that it may not be the man that left me standing on that rooftop all those nights ago.

"Do you know what happened to him?" I ask Robin, failing to dodge the fist that he swings at me. He hits me in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me momentarily. Without the restraint of training, the blow could put me out of the fight. "When did he fall off the grid? How long has he been locked away in there?"

"You ask too many questions," Robin grumbles, moving out of his fighting stance, "you won't learn anything if you don't focus."

"You must know something," I keep pushing, "how long, Robin?

"Nightwing told me to train you today," Robin picks up a Bo Staff, testing the weight of it in his hand before giving it a swing. "If you don't show any progress tomorrow then he will put the blame on me. I don't have time for any more lectures."

"How long?" I ask again through gritted teeth, demanding answers. He thrusts the bo staff into my hand roughly, glaring at me with those dark, piercing eyes.

"I don't know anything. I haven't seen him," he snarls, clenching his fists, "he hasn't been to see me, and Pennyworth won't let me in to see him. The most I've heard from him was when he forced me into working with you."

He seizes another Bo Staff, spinning it around in his hand. "Stop asking stupid questions, and focus on training. Or else you'll die out there. And I won't feel sorry for you, not even a little."

The resentment in his expression never falters, and so he never gives anything away. But had I looked down I would have seen his hands trembling like a frightened child, and I would have known that the boy was more filled with anguish than rage. I could have seen his fear of rejection, but instead I locked eyes with his and saw only his desire to hit things and keep hitting them until the anger inside him was quenched.

Dick returns to the mansion that night, entering through one of the cave tunnels dressed in his Nightwing uniform and Alfred quickly attends to him. I observe this caring gesture, watch as the old man inspects Nightwing's wounded shoulder. Dick steps off his motorcycle and pulls off his helmet, wincing at the strain the movement puts on his injuries. "I broke up a rather tense meeting between Penguin and Two Face," he explains smoothly, allowing Alfred to poke and prod at him. The older man had made a routine out of patching up their injuries over the years.

"Those two aren't exactly close," I point out, "why would they hold a meeting?"

Nightwing shrugs with his one good shoulder. "I didn't get the opportunity to listen into the whole conversation. But any good blood between them has gone bad. Not that it's all that unusual but they'd surrounded themselves with their thugs for backup."

"The beginning of a turf war?" I theorise aloud, though I'm already doubtful. Neither of those two men had ever had much trouble claiming territory, and neither had much need to breach on the others. There would be nothing to gain from the squabble.

"Maybe. They were arguing over something that was stolen," he says, wincing again as Alfred works the stitching needle through his skin with a practised hand, listening. "They were accusing one another of stealing something that didn't belong to them. When it turned violent I had to intervene, so I didn't hear more than that."

Alfred finishes the stitches and covers them carefully with gauze, reminding Dick to be more careful, and doesn't bat an eye when Dick promises he will. He must hear it all the time. He doesn't believe it anymore, but he continually reminds him all the same. I imagine he's made a habit out of it, hoping that if someone he cared about were to die, he could keep living with the knowledge that he had done what he could. Though, the way he puts the gauze away but keeps the medical kit out tells me that he knows his work will never be done. He knows that enough will never be enough, and he'll always wonder what more he could have done.

Over the next few weeks my training becomes more intense. I spend more hours in the cave than I do upstairs in the manor, any trace of my old life seeming to fade the longer I'm away from it. Not that I had much of a life left to return to. Everything that had been mine was now lost to my own mistakes: buried in rubble and ash and blood.

Though I had made improvements in my training, I had never felt further from my goal. The hours of work felt like it was tunnelling me in the wrong direction, leaving me restless at the end of the day. Each night I curl up in bed and wonder why I hadn't yet rebuilt what once was. ' _What am I waiting for?_ _'_ I think.

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear that now familiar sound of Nightwing's motorbike as he returns once more from his patrol of the city. He has been investigating the case between Penguin and Two Face, observing their hostile interactions, and making sure it doesn't escalate into a war. With the help of the illusive Oracle, whom he says prefers to work now with a group of her own peers called the Birds of Prey, he has found that they aren't fighting over stolen resources but rather more personal objects. Oracle discovered that they're missing their trophies. Items that had a role of importance in their lives and had become a part of who they are.

At first, I'm baffled that so much bad blood could come out of stolen possessions, but then I realise how much power objects with history hold over us. As if I wouldn't tear the city apart to find what I hold most dear. Like the locket I keep hidden away in safe keeping. It's a battered, rusted thing by now, the cheap metal discolouring over the years, and it's worth nothing. But it's the only keepsake I have of my mother, a woman who never held much, if any, affection for me but still gifted me with my grandmother's locket before taking her own life. And that makes it priceless.

Somehow it's the most mundane of things that matter most to even the greediest or cruellest of us. So I don't find any surprise in learning that Two Face is seeking the coin he uses to reflect his duo personalities.

Each face of the coin represents an ultimate unbiased choice, a decision that neither Two Face nor Harvey Dent take part in. Over the years he has become dependent on it, the two halves of himself quarrelling over fairness in actions, and neither finding solace without the other. Without that coin, he's become unpredictable. The choices now comprise of more than right or wrong, and black and white. There's now a grey area, and it's devastating him, torturing his mind with the complexity of choice, and cause and effect. The two personalities inside his head must sound like a deafening roar, the voices bleeding into one another forming nonsensical words, and all that _does_ make sense is chaos.

"I can understand why Two Face is so hostile," Dick says, turning to speak to me, "but Penguin is losing his head over some trick umbrellas. There's no value in them and he has his sanity and his wits. He has no dependency on them."

"He has his ego," I say simply, accessing Penguin's files on the computer and I search through the articles, pulling forward particular cases. "Oracle specified these umbrellas didn't she?" I focus on the weapon descriptions and occasional photographs, highlighting all the unique identifying features of each.

Nightwing steps closer to the monitor, inspecting the screen carefully. "From what she described they seem to be the exact ones. How do you know them so well?"

"Honestly? I've kind of always envied them," I admit sheepishly, "but I'd look ridiculous using one, don't you think? Not really my style."

Dick smiles briefly, struggling to stay focused. "What makes these ones so special?"

I gesture to the monitor, the answer right in front of his eyes. "They are his biggest hits. With an ego like that, wouldn't you take pride in your greatest moments? In your most impressive murders?"

He mulls it over for a moment, studying the articles a little more closely now to see the connection between each umbrella and its corresponding victim. The murders of minor celebrities and politicians and wealthy businessmen is Penguin's pride and joy, though any jail time he served was minimal since all charges seemed to be mysteriously dropped. Everyone is aware that he is guilty of those crimes but it didn't matter; he had successfully made himself untouchable, a force to be reckoned with. This all served his massive ego, and without those trophies, he must feel lost, like a child playing a grown man's game.

"Why would they point fingers at one another?" Dick questions, trying and failing to make any kind of connection. I honestly can't understand it either, so I shrug.

"Maybe they've exhausted all their other options? Or maybe this is just the starting point."

"Yeah, maybe," Dick mumbles, his gaze fleeting and his demeanour uneasy. "Either way this is getting out of control. You and Robin will need to continue the investigation and track down the stolen goods. Oracle will make contact if she finds anything useful but she's currently got her hands full."

"Robin and I? You're not helping anymore?" I push my seat back and stand up, staring him down. His plan of departure is news to me. An unsettling turn of events.

"Blüdhaven needs me," he explains, "I've stayed here for as long as I could… and Bruce says you're ready to get out there."

I shake my head, unsure as to whether I've heard him right. "Does he now? And how exactly would he know if I'm ready when he refuses to see me?"

Dick's response is livid, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "He won't see me either you know! He will only speak to me through the monitor, and, before you say anything, I'm aware that he doesn't speak to you at all. The circumstances would be different if I had any say in it, but I don't, so please don't argue."

I turn my back to him, taking deep breaths in an attempt to soothe myself. It doesn't work. "What exactly did he say?"

"That I have to return to Blüdhaven," he informs me, "and that you need to get out there… he says you're restless."

I rub my temples firmly, mimicking Dick's stress induced habit. Bruce knows that my patience is wearing thinner as each day passes, the time doing nothing other than feeding my fury. It grows larger and ever more aggressive the longer I stay here. Seeing _him_ on the news the night before fuelled it to an overwhelming point, and I found myself pounding my fists into a punching bag at 4am, picturing _him_ in its place. Alfred had come downstairs warily, still wearing his pyjamas, and he had said nothing as he set down a cup of tea for me, leaving me to beat out my pain. I sense he had seen the behaviour before in Bruce, and yet after all this time he hadn't found the right words. Or perhaps he had simply learned that there weren't in fact any right words at all.

"Selina?" Dick's voice softens as he treads carefully closer to me, reaching out to touch my shoulder but withdrawing his hand quickly. He doesn't know how to offer comfort when he doesn't know why I'm hurting in the first place. His brief attempt at trying only makes it worse.

I realise that it isn't that he or Alfred aren't capable of consoling, it's simply that I can't be consoled. Bruce knew before I did that I can only help myself.

"Go to Blüdhaven, I'll handle this," I tell him firmly, "but I'll need a uniform."


	5. Chapter 5

The suit is heavier than what I was expecting, the weight of it dragging me down like my pockets are filled with stones. I try to move my limbs to see if I can possibly grow accustomed to it but the effort is arduous and uncomfortable.

With a heavy sigh, dissatisfied with my new attire, I work the cowl on over my head and find that, it too, is painful. Dick shows me how to activate the voice changer that's built into it and it feels like reverberations against my throat whenever I speak, the words now sounding like they belong to a deep voiced man.

"All this seems rather unnecessary, don't you think?" I turn to Dick, unable to pose for him even if I wanted to. "I look ridiculous, don't I?" I can only imagine how pathetic I look. Like an imposter just badly acting out a role, or a child playing dress ups.

"Actually, you look intimidating," Dick tries to reassure, and I search his expression for any indication that he's lying. I'm surprised when I don't find any. His words inspire some confidence in me, allowing me to relax a little, but not enough.

"It weighs a tonne," I complain, trying once more to move my arms and find that it _is_ slightly easier now that I've been wearing it for a short while.

"It will feel like that at first, until you can get accustomed to it," Dick sounds marginally apologetic, "but it's as lightweight as it can be without hindering it's protective qualities. That and we had to build upon your form a bit, conceal your more… feminine figure."

I place my hands on my now undefined hips. "Is that your attempt at mild flirtation?" I tease.

Dick cringes, turning away from me but I still see his cheeks redden, embarrassed.

"Absolutely not," he quickly defends himself.

"Do you think about my feminine figure a lot?" I question, my voice like a purr, "when you're alone at night, do you picture the curves of my body?"

He looks back at me, his entire face now flushed scarlet. I'm pleased that I have managed to render him momentarily speechless, his usual air of confidence vanishing in an instant.

"Please, do not flirt with me. Even jokingly," he pleads. "Especially not when you look and sound like Batman… the man did raise me after all."

I laugh, the sound the most honest and pure it had been in months. Finally, my smile is genuine and filled with good humour. I'd forgotten what it was to elatedly banter with a friend and to let everything else fade into the background. Dick laughs along with me, his previous aversion for me slowly but surely dissipating with the more time we spend together in the cave. It isn't exactly friendship but it is closest thing I have to it since _she_ died.

I haven't seen Harley or Ivy for a long time, the last meeting being a tense one filled with feelings of betrayal and mistrust. Despite helping them escape Batman and I, I doubt they remember me fondly. Even I, to this day, don't feel completely at ease with the choices I had made concerning them.

Somehow my laughter turns sad, the sound now like it's passing through dead lips. It becomes hollow, void of any humour or pleasure and soon I feel inclined to let it fade away into silence. Laughing with Dick reminds me that my friends are gone, either having died or left me, and always at my hands. I have nobody else to blame but myself. I look at Dick now, and I decide to do something I had rarely done before. I decide to say what is truly on my mind.

"I'm a disgrace," I tell him. "I'm so implausibly lonely."

His smile falls, the high from our brief comfortable moment suddenly dying.

He looks me in the eye, his stare unwavering, and he says, "You're never alone. Somebody always cares, even if you don't see it."

Robin hits me square in the jaw, and while the cowl absorbs most of the impact, my head still spins. Movement in the suit is a still difficult though I had been wearing it for most of the night, trying to break it in. Nevertheless, I take the punch in stride and work to deflect the next one, which I do effectively. I'm finding that it's best to work with the extra weight, and that with the right focus I can use it to my advantage. It puts more power into my punches, making each hit land harder and harder with every swing. But while I feel that I am rapidly adapting and learning, Robin thinks that I'm still an unreliable Batman. He has no hesitation in reminding me every day that I'm not Bruce and that I never will be.

"I'd make a better Batman than you," he would often sneer.

I once remarked how nobody would take a Batman as short as himself seriously, and I quickly learned that this was a mistake. He does not take kindly to any kind of criticism, joking or otherwise.

"No amount of training is going to save you," he snarls at me now, glaring at me with those dark eyes that I've come to loathe.

I don't give a response, though I'm becoming more frustrated with all the new ways he decides to insult me. He may fight like a trained assassin, but he has the attitude of an insolent, egotistical child. The maturity he has gained in combatant skills, he has failed to obtain in every other aspect of his personality. And while he and Dick have their disagreements and frequent arguments, Dick still loves him like his own brother. This never fails to amaze me, since Robin is such an unlikeable person.

It's a wonder that he wasn't raised to know better.

"Robin, play nice," Dick scolds, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder warningly, but his heart isn't in it. He finds that it's easier just to take the kid as he is, flaws and all. Robin shrugs Dick's hand from his shoulder, the words passing through one ear and out the other.

"Don't start with me, Grayson," he threatens, reaching for a katana sword. I'm sure he would never use it against either of us.

Fairly sure.

Okay, I'm not entirely sure.

He ignores us both as he begins a holographic simulation on his own and we step aside, choosing not to interrupt. It's the first time that I've seen him fighting without restraint, his lashes with the sword intending to be lethal. There's so much rage in his movements, his attacks not only murderous but also torturous. The holograms are destroyed, taken apart limb by limb before disintegrating in a wave of pixels, and I wince as his blade spears an eye socket and exits through the back of the hologram's skull. I can picture the blood. I can see it running in a river of red, gushing from their wounds. His face would be covered in it, dripping from his chin and he wouldn't smile. Ominously there would no flicker of joy or regret in his expression, no indication of his motives. He would kill just for the sake of it.

I watch him, disturbed yet mesmerised by the fluidity of his movements and the brutality of it all. Dick, however, seems to care very little if not at all, and he works Batman's cape onto my back. I'm surprised when I don't feel much weight fall onto my shoulders. Somehow, the cape is the most lightweight part of the entire ensemble.

"If you were intimidating before, you're terrifying now," Dick grins and takes a few steps away from me so I have room to move with the cape. "It's Bruce's cape, not a new one. So try not to lose it."

My cheeks redden a little but the colouring is hidden from Dick and Robin by my cowl. I've held this cape in my hands many times before, and I've felt the material beneath my partially naked body, smooth against my skin. Occasionally, Bruce and I would find ourselves on a secluded rooftop or in an isolated building, rarely ever having actually sought each other out. There would be sharp words rolling from my tongue, heated words ground through his gritted teeth, and somehow this dispute would escalate into a crazed, passionate make out session.

His lips would be firm against mine, his hands groping at the small of my back, pulling me ever closer. And I would just melt into him, my hands starting at the back of his neck but quickly trailing down to his utility belt, hooking my fingers into the buckle. We seemed to take our frustrations out on one another, each time an act of messed up, consensual abuse in which I'd dish out misdirected ferocity as often as I would take it. Though by the end of it I'd be held in his arms, the cape beneath us like a blanket, and all that glorious pain we had caused one another faded easily into the past.

The silkiness of his cape, and the warmth of his body next to mine would near lull me to sleep. But we could never stay there long. The world could only stop moving for so long before it would resume without us, and while this prospect never bothered me, it did bother him. He would want to pull away long before I did and we would part ways in silence, both of us knowing that it should be the last time but that it wouldn't be.

Before I knew who he really was, these meetings were extremely frenzied, most of our costumes staying on as we fought for dominance over one another. As enjoyable as it was, it didn't last. After learning he was Bruce Wayne, the passion mellowed and his hold on me was softer, less forceful and rough. I didn't expect it, but this change in our dynamic was more pleasurable, and I found that I lusted after Bruce just as much as I did Batman, if not more so. Those nights we spent together enveloped in his cape were some of the best, even if they were void of love.

I run the material through my gloved hands now, a wistful smile playing at my lips and I wonder if Bruce often reflects back on it, and if he thinks about me. For some reason, I'd never asked him.

Robin hasn't stopped his simulation, and he nearly runs into me, causing me to step backwards against the cape. The material tangles beneath the heel of my foot and I fall, landing on my ass with a surprised "oof." Robin freezes and bursts into a fit of laughter and Dick soon follows, trying but failing to appear concerned for me. I hadn't realised that Robin could actually find anything funny, all humour hitting his ears like a bird flying into a brick wall. Flustered, I detangle the cape from my legs with some difficulty and a hand reaches out to help me stand. I clasp it tightly and allow myself to be hoisted up, not realising until I'm steady on my feet that it was Robin and not Dick that assisted me. His face is still broken out in a childlike smile, his eyes appearing almost two shades lighter with the joy that fills them.

"You're definitely not Batman," he sniggers teasingly, but for the first time there's nothing insulting about it.

By the next night, Dick is gone, having left for Blüdhaven with an apprehensive goodbye. There was so much hesitance as he fixed his bag onto his back before climbing onto his motorcycle and speeding out through one of the mansion's garages. He'd promised he would return if we needed him, that he was always only one call away. And while this is all true, it still felt as though I'd never see him again. Somehow this isn't as alarming as I thought it would be. Rather, I just know that I'll miss having his company. And I can't guarantee that my quarrels with Robin won't grow physically aggressive without having Dick there to intervene. By the morning, Robin had resumed that familiar antisocial disposition, his good natured laughter from only a few hours before seemingly forgotten.

He enters the cave already dressed in his Robin uniform (I never see him wearing anything else), his eyes fleeting by me as though I were made of air. Though he had done very little to stand up to Dick before, it was apparent that he had no issue in taking charge as he pleased. He does this now, somehow carrying his small frame as though he were over 6'tall. In an instant, he can transform himself from a juvenile boy into an unyielding leader, though he is persistently stubborn in either role. I know I am meant to be in charge- I am now Batman after all- however I find myself far more willing to follow him instead.

"I've been monitoring the undertakings of Kevin Driver for the past few weeks. He has been involved in human trafficking. The police suspect he's a pawn in a much larger game, but I think he may be the king piece on the board," Robin tells me, using a monitor to bring up a picture of Kevin Driver. "He's been kidnapping prostitutes from the streets and selling them off."

"What makes you so sure he's in charge of the whole operation?"

"Look who you're talking to," he says arrogantly, offering no evidence to support his claims. He expects me to trust him, and I think he may be testing me on my response. As my partner in putting-an-end-to-crime, I have little choice but to take him at his word.

"I believe I have tracked him down. He owns an apartment under a fraudulent mortgage," he tells me, pulling up a map of Gotham and pinpointing the location.

I raise an eyebrow, biting my lip thoughtfully. Dick told me how Robin was recovering for months, and even if he weren't, he would never be left to investigate a case like this on his own.

"You mean Dick tracked him down?" I ask knowingly.

"No… Oracle did," he admits, "but it's still my case. She gave it to me."

I smirk and look at the map, and I recognise the block of units that's marked. Instantly my smile falls. "This apartment, he bought it through Matthew Carter's real estate."

"Yes he did. How did you know that?"

Matthew Carter, known as _The Royal_ , or _The Barbarian_ , depending on whether he is standing within earshot. And whether you value your life or not. Professionally, he is many things, working in real estate like his father before him, and a political consultant for some of Gotham's most notable candidates. Though, being born into a wealthy family, he has little need to work. He does it purely for the power it serves him. Descendants of the royal family, generations of the Carters have grown up here, acting as one of Gotham's founding families. They were some of the first to build upon the landscape, rapidly becoming some of the wealthiest businessmen in the country.

Powerful, and proud of it, Matthew's parents raised their son to believe that people are worth only what they have to offer. They themselves had no friends, only business partners and important contacts, and so he grew up much the same. Friendless. But never lonely. Whatever people wouldn't give to him, he would simply take, and companionship never became something he wanted. It's for this reason that he has made himself successful. No rich man is an honest one, nor are they kind (though Bruce can at times be the exception to the rule).

Matthew grew up despising minorities and those living in poverty, because they have nothing to offer. Nothing worth his attention. To him, it's as if their impoverishment has robbed him of his power. So he belittles them, abuses them, finding some kind of sick satisfaction in their pain. And like his father, he works to create business opportunities where they didn't exist before. For him, this means taking advantage of the poor and downtrodden, and disposing of them when and if they become useless to him. He will take everything you have and then take your life only when there is nothing else left.

Of the nine lives I started with, I'm down to my last one, and I'm not going to let Matthew Carter take that away from me.

"Lucky guess. But I don't think he's in charge," I answer tonelessly, reaching for my cowl and I pull it on, activating the voice changer. "Let's go find Kevin Driver."


	6. Chapter 6

The air is crisp and cool tonight, the streets crystal clear aside from the usual steam billowing from the underground vents. This makes it easy to follow Kevin Driver as he exits a downtown bar, swaying a little as he walks intoxicated around the block. He looks like any other guy, if not more dishevelled than most, and that's the most frightening thing. A monster can be hidden inside anyone.

Wordlessly, I follow Robin, opting to trail after Kevin on foot rather than grappling from rooftop to rooftop. This is Robin's case, so I allow him to lead me, but it's more than that. I am also afraid that I may not make the right choices.

We reach the apartment before he does and watch as he fumbles with his keys, struggling to fit the right one into the lock. He's so pathetic that I almost pity him. I start to sympathise with a man I know has done wrong because I see that weathered coat he's wearing, and his gloveless hands stark white in the winter's biting cold. I see he walks with holes in his shoes and a limp in his step and I assume he does what he does out of desperation.

I let Robin take charge because his judgement isn't blurred by compassion.

That is until we follow him inside and find four women in various stages of undress, bound and gagged in the living room. The smell of urine and faeces assaults us before we see it covering their legs and clothes, pooled beneath them like they've been trapped here for days, maybe even weeks. Kevin staggers upstairs and the sound of clanging old pipes fills the apartment as he runs a bath. He can't hear us as we untie the women, their wrists and ankles bleeding, the skin rubbed raw by the tight rope. Weakened by starvation and dehydration, they don't even cry, instead just reaching for us with tired arms and holding onto us with loose grips. I try to comfort them but no words seem appropriate, and the voice changer makes all of them sound harsh and intimidating.

They lean closer to Robin than me, his small stature and quiet voice more soothing than what I can offer them. His standard bitterness and lack of empathy disintegrate as he tends to their wounds and whispers words of protection, and I see that there is more to him than ferocity. I can only assume he learned this from Bruce. It's still far too practiced to come naturally.

"Contact the police and get these women medical assistance," I instruct him, standing upright and swiftly moving towards the staircase, "I'll get Driver."

As I reach the landing of the stairs, the pipes squeal as the water is turned off, the apartment becoming dead silent until the floorboards begin to creak under the weight of his still drunken steps. I stay obscured by the dark hallway, going unnoticed by the man as he walks by me into the bedroom. Before I can grab him however, a siren sounds nearby and he looks towards the window, instinctively reaching for his gun on the bedside table. Even intoxicated he is rightfully suspicious. Unfortunately for me, this means he is armed and on edge, two variables that put me at risk. I approach from behind and move to pin his arms at his sides. Startled, he lets off a shot, the bullet piercing the wall. The sirens grow louder as the police draw nearer and Kevin throws his weight against me in his desperation, firing another shot blindly before I can knock the gun from his grip. Unarmed, he makes his escape through the window, running down the fire escape. Perhaps, had he been sober, his efforts would have been more rewarding. Instead he drunkenly blunders down the alleyway and I follow only at a fast walk, allowing him to make it some ways down the road before throwing a well-aimed batarang at his back, knocking him to the ground.

Groaning, he pathetically crawls to the wall, grabbing at the brick in vain, trying to find something to pull himself up with. I don't see a man worth pitying now, I see a mutt. I see something so despicable, so unworthy of compassion, that it takes all I have not to gouge out his eyes.

He sits upright, his back against the wall and he clenches his hands into fists, trying and failing to be threatening. But the fear in his eyes reveals he has very little fight in him. I kneel down closer to his level and tilt my head to the side curiously, waiting to see what he will do with those trembling fists of his. He swings weakly and I catch his wrist, gripping tightly until he visibly winces in pain.

"Kevin Driver, you were going to sell those women like they were objects, weren't you?" I question stiffly, not loosening my hold on him.

"N…no, I w…would never…," he stammers, the stench of alcohol strong on his breath. I wager he pays for the liquor with the money he makes trafficking women. There's nothing redeemable in that.

"No? So were they tied up for your own amusement?" I hiss, twisting his arm until he cries. But he doesn't yet beg for mercy. "Did you keep them captive, gagged and starving, covered in their own bodily fluids, so you could touch them?"

The more I twist his arm, the more he screams, panic stricken. He can't look into the eyes of the bat, but I feel it's less out of guilt and more out of fear for his own life. I want him to feel shame for his actions. I want him to regret those he has hurt for his own selfish and repulsive desires.

"You did, didn't you? I bet you liked it when they begged for you to let them go. When there was nothing they could say or do to stop you from hurting them over and over again. You sick, perverted-"

"They're dirty whores!" he spits, interrupting me, "they got what they deserved! They were asking for it! Just look at the way they dress!"

Unflinchingly, I twist his arm further until I hear it snap. I can feel the bone as it breaks, like a jolt running into my hand, and I find some satisfaction as he finally begs for mercy; imploring for me to stop. The material of his jeans darkens at the crotch, a warm puddle of piss forming beneath him as he wets himself, sobbing.

The illusion of a man is exposed to be just that: an illusion.

"Why are you working with The Barbarian?" I interrogate, knowing that it isn't a coincidence that he got the apartment through Matthew's agency. Especially when he evidently purchased it with fraudulent cash.

He doesn't respond right away and so I push hard against the shattered bone in his arm. In clean pieces, the bones shift around and then the sharp Radius bone pierces the skin of his arm. Blood pours from the wound the more I work it and I begin to wonder how and if they can fix this. Assuming they can at all. Perhaps, no matter their efforts, it will never quite work the same.

Two police vehicles pull up at the end of the alley, their sirens off but their lights still flashing red and blue and four officers step out. Kevin is still howling, great hideous cries with snot dripping from his nose and hanging off his chin, like an upset child, and he doesn't answer me. I'm not sure whether he can actually hear me anymore. Out of time, I grapple up to the rooftop, leaving him sitting there in his own piss, his arm bent the wrong way. I know this is a night he won't forget, even if he hasn't learnt the lesson; and I find I'm smiling despite myself.

It's no wonder to me anymore why Bruce does this, now that I see what the guise of Batman is capable of. Only the Bat can punish those that deserve it, and by doing so it rebuilds the person inside the uniform; one small piece at a time.

"You did what?!" Dick appears stunned, blinking at me through the monitor as though in a daze.

"She broke his arm," Robin interjects, one side of his lips raised in a crooked smile, "' _like a twig_ ' apparently. Then she near pulled the broken bone out. Aren't you proud?"

Dick frowns and massages his temples, searching for the appropriate response. On the one hand, I had successfully apprehended a criminal, but on the other I had gone above and beyond what was necessary in the process. While Robin seems genuinely pleased with this, Dick visibly grows more distressed the longer he mulls it over.

"You are so much like Bruce. Both of you," he sighs finally, shaking his head forlornly, "not afraid to torture people in your mission for justice."

"Torture?" I scoff, "torture would have been tying him up for weeks on end, refusing to feed him, letting him fester in his own filth all the while. Like he had done to those innocent women."

"What she said," Robin says defensively before Dick can make any kind of remark. It's an unusual but appreciated alliance; our word against Dick's. He must feel he is being ganged up on as he struggles for words and looks around him, wherever he is, for support. Being there alone, he finds none.

"You take everything so personally," he complains, flustered, "you have to distance yourself from the situation. You need to treat this experience like a job and get the work done with as few transgressions as possible. And with little to no broken bones, either yours or theirs."

"It's called empathy, Dick," I taunt, clenching my hands into tight fists.

"Empathy? Are you sure you don't mean apathy? Because from what I hear, you tortured a man and felt nothing."

I remember the feeling of Kevin's arm shattering. The force that sent a vibration into the palm of my hand. I remember the way it sounded like a hollow crack. But clearer than that, I remember the way his scream pierced the quiet alleyway, erupting from his lungs like a wave crashing against rock, or thunder shaking the ground beneath me in a deafening roar. The sound of something world stopping.

"I did feel something," I tell him severely, "Not apathy. Not empathy. It was all-consuming ecstasy, and I won't apologise for it. I have never felt prouder. He should consider himself lucky that I broke his arm rather than his spine."

Dick winces, his expression becoming pained and he logs off without another word. I turn to Robin, satisfied but he doesn't return the sentiment. Instead he seems almost ashamed, but not of himself.

"Kevin Driver got what he deserved," he says gently, "but you hit a nerve with Grayson. You hit many, many nerves."

"What do you mean?" I implore, taken aback.

Robin looks me right in the eye, uttering one single word. A name. "Barbara."

Barbara Gordon was Batgirl before The Joker shot her in the stomach, the bullet shattering her spinal cord. This robbed her not only of her mobility but also her sense of security. It rocked her mentality so deeply that she has never recovered. Not really.

Batgirl was murdered that day, leaving only the weakened body of Barbara behind, and nobody could save her. Despite the unconditional love and support from her father, and Bruce and Dick, she could never become that person again.

She distanced herself from the Bat family, hiding within herself for over a year before emerging as Oracle. In this role she provided important Intel for her peers, finding strength in her intellect and technological capabilities. She became a version of herself, even if she never believed it to be the best one. But while she repaired these aspects of her life, the romantic relationship she had with Dick couldn't be revived. They drifted apart, but Dick's love for her never dwindled, and no other woman proved to be distraction enough for him. No matter how hard he looked, all he saw was her. From what Robin tells me, Barbara's respect and affection for Dick exists as strongly as it did before the day she opened the door to Joker's gruesome smile. But it isn't love anymore.

"He hasn't moved on," Robin tells me, "he tries to hide it, but I've always been able to see right through him. Grayson is simple that way."

"What about Bruce? Has he moved on?"

"Of course not. He never forgives himself for his mistakes," Robin says, "much like he doesn't forgive anyone else for theirs." He seems particularly exasperated as he utters that last part, crossing his arms and slinking down in his seat.

"Yeah. I get that," I breathe, shaking my head dejectedly, "it's a miracle that he's given me a second chance."

Robin laughs without humour, the sound stopping just as abruptly as it began. "A second chance? I've seen your file. He's given you far more chances than that. More than the rest of us have ever been granted."

Those words make my heart involuntarily flutter with hope, and I silently chastise myself for wanting it to mean more than it does. I want him to care for me as much as I do him. I know this is a foolish desire, so I try to force it out of my mind. But the dream still lingers.

"What can I say? Cats have nine lives," I grin, trying to pass myself off as confident and unconcerned. He rolls his eyes and turns his back on me. He doesn't see through the façade.

As the weeks pass, the nights seem to blur into one another, the exhaustion of infrequent sleep turning hours into days. The seemingly endless nights, whilst gruelling, are not so unlike my life before I wore this uniform. I was always most active the hours between dusk and dawn, using the cover of darkness to conceal my mischievous and very illegal deeds. However, I would normally spend my days oversleeping, curled up under the covers with the blinds drawn, as though I was safe inside a cocoon. Now my days are filled with more training, both mental and physical, and it never seems to end. Robin approaches this routine like his life depends on it. Which it probably does. Always moving and working and fighting, rarely giving himself moments of rest. Alfred seems to be distressed but unsurprised by the boy's behaviour.

When I questioned his feelings on it, he simply shook his head and said, "I've watched people waste themselves away ever since Bruce's parents died. Eventually you get used to the pain. It's like not realising you've been shot until you notice you're bleeding."

I remember the way his appearance had turned crestfallen and his body had shrunk in on itself like it aged years in an instant. All because the man he had raised from a boy was locked upstairs, assumedly broken and bedridden. I saw a history in which he waited each night for dawn to break, not sleeping until reassured that Bruce was alive. And how even still, assurance never found him. Because Bruce, though alive, still would not live.

"I did the best I could after he was orphaned," he told me one night, "I tried to raise him, not like a son, but still like my own. I loved him, and I told him so all the time. But he was so broken, always searching for a reason why his parents died. He needed it to mean something, for it to be more than what it was. As the truth destroyed him, I could only watch; like I was on the outside looking in."

"But he's so strong, Alfred. He has done more for Gotham than anyone else ever could. More than what anyone else was willing to do," I'd offered, knowing it would do little to comfort him.

"I tried to give him a childhood. A life that wasn't wrought with pain and resentment. I offered that so many times and in so many ways but he wouldn't take it. Maybe to you that means he's strong. But to me that means he has never stopped being afraid."

I'd held his hand in mine, smoothing over his skin with my thumb, and he hadn't pulled away. Instead he had placed his other hand over mine with a sad smile. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and I had wanted to embrace him. I wanted to console the older man but then he said:

"Fear will make people do all sorts of things, even if that means sacrificing their every chance of happiness whenever it presents itself. You need to let go of whatever it is that's frightening you, Selina. Whatever it is that has put you in Bruce's shoes… please, don't let it consume you. I'm an old man that's watched all the good die young, and I don't want to see anymore."

I realised then that, once again, I was the one being offered consolation, not the other way round. Alfred, so selfless in nature, put everyone else before him.

"You're so strong, Alfred," I had whispered, my voice so soft that it was lost even amongst the silence. I said this knowing that strong really meant afraid. He had committed his life to Bruce the same way Bruce had committed his to Gotham. From the outside it looked like a feat of strength, but from the inside it was revealed to be an act of all consuming trepidation. Alfred had sacrificed his chances of happiness just as thoroughly as Bruce had, and I was sailing on the same sinking ship.

I saw it so clearly, my inevitable miserable future.

I just found no desire to try and escape it.


	7. Chapter 7

"Can I drive the Batmobile tonight?" Robin asks as we approach the sleek black vehicle. He is already moving to the passenger side. Assumedly he must have asked this many times before with no luck.

"Only if you call her by her real name," I grin, sensually running my index finger up along the hood of the car.

He eyes me suspiciously, hesitating with his hand on the handle of the passenger side door. He suspects I might be playing him, tricking him into some kind of embarrassing situation, and doesn't know whether the possible rewards may be worth the risk.

Finally he sighs, his lips pressed in a firm, thin line before uttering, "Selina, may I drive Sexy tonight?"

I smirk, victorious, for I had been trying to convince him to adopt the nickname for the car since I donned the cape. I pat the hood of the car gently, admiring it again for it truly is a magnificent, sexy beast of a thing. I'd always lusted one of my own, but no duplicate could compare to the original. Truthfully, I'd contemplated carjacking it many times but found the idea of tampering with it too painful to bear. She was far too stunning to risk tainting with hotwiring.

"You may indeed drive her. No need to be gentle. This isn't her first time."

I grant him his wish, nudging him aside so I can get in the passenger seat. He is still for a moment, dubious as to whether he has in fact been given genuine permission. Slowly, he sits behind the driver's seat, his hands left hovering over the wheel as though expecting it to bite. His cheeks are a little flushed, embarrassed by my sexual innuendo, but he makes no comment. He often pretends he isn't so easily rattled but he doesn't have me convinced.

"Well go on then. Drive," I say when we are still stationary a minute later, the ignition still switched off. "Or don't you know how?"

"I know how!" he snaps defensively, "I just… I've never been allowed to before."

"Oh I wonder why," I remark sarcastically. "Can you even reach the pedals? Or are your feet just dangling there?"

"I can reach the pedals just fine!" He sounds increasingly irritable and he starts the engine but I can barely feel it humming and it doesn't make a sound. "Dick and Bruce are just under the false assumption that I can't drive. When I can."

"Well that's reassuring," I mock and purposely buckle myself in. Robin tightens his grip on the wheel and stamps down on the accelerator, causing the vehicle to take off like a bullet from a gun. I brace myself the best I can, startled at the sudden velocity.

"Fucking hell. I said you didn't need to be gentle. That doesn't mean you could be _this_ rough. It's just plain sadistic," I curse. I think he rolls his eyes, but I can't be sure. "Of all the ways I thought I might end up dying, I didn't think this would be it. Killed by a kid that can't even see over the steering wheel."

Robin takes a sharp turn to the right, the vehicle almost skidding along the gravel. It's a lucky thing that Sexy is more talented than most, designed to survive the harshest of conditions. But if anyone could slaughter her engine, it was this brute of a child.

"If you make one more comment on my driving, I will pull this vehicle over and you can walk," he snarls.

"Oh please do pull over. Walking seems a much better option than dying in a fireball with you."

True to his word, he makes a swift turn of the wheel and we come to an abrupt stop. He manually opens the passenger side door and waits impatiently for me to get out. I don't move.

"Get out," he hisses, glaring daggers at me, "I warned you."

"Robin… I'm just teasing you," I say softly, almost apologetic, but not quite. "Sure, I am a teeny tiny bit afraid for my life. But I said you could drive and I meant it."

His expression softens a little but his gaze probes for understanding. He continuously struggles to grasp any human interaction that exists outside of kill or be killed. Any display of kindness doesn't seem to register the way it should. Which isn't to say he's heartless. Rather it's just too alien for him to know how to reciprocate. He's learnt that others will do things with emotion as their only driving force, but he hasn't yet learned why.

This makes me feel guilty at times, thinking I turn well intentioned gestures into ways to taunt him. Like he's starving for the ability to _feel_ like the rest of us, and I'm flaunting my aptitude for it.

The police scanner starts to crackle, the sound startling us both. Robin reaches to turn it up, listening to the GCPD reporting on a crime in progress.

"10-11. We have a suspected 10-31 on 34th Abel Street, Burnley. Magenta Jewellers. Alleged 10-32: proceed with caution."

Robin is speeding forward before I can comprehend what is happening and I grip my seat though I'm still safely buckled in. He manages to keep control of the vehicle better than I had expected, the adrenaline helping him focus.

"There's an alarm sounding at a jewellery store. A suspected armed burglary," he informs me swiftly, "your area of expertise, I believe."

"I never went in armed," I correct him, "that was never my style. Nothing is less elegant than a gun. So bulky and harsh. It looks cheap."

"Because in thievery nothing is more important than elegance," Robin scoffs sarcastically, executing a sharp turn to the left as we enter Burnley. At this rate we will make it there long before the police do. Their pathetic excuses for vehicles have nothing on Sexy. Compared to her, they're nothing more than little tin toys. Perfect for scrap metal.

"After a while it gets so easy that I can afford to concern myself with such things as flair," I explain, "it's the smallest touches that give the job a certain something special."

Robin sighs heavily; exasperated, and utters something along the lines of, "I will never understand you thieving dirt bags," but I can't be sure I heard him correctly. I like to imagine he said something more affectionate and admiring. As if he were growing fond of my quirks.

We stop some ways up the road from the jewellers. The nearest precinct is located on the outskirts of The Bowery, meaning they will approach from an angle that won't allow them to spot Sexy parked here. Cautiously, we approach the store on foot, the alarm blaring louder the nearer we get, but we do not see anybody through the shopfront. I expect the suspect fled the scene as soon as the alarm sounded, leaving nothing but a mess to be cleaned up. However, the barriers dropped as soon as the security was triggered and there are no signs of a forced exit from the premises. Meaning they either found another way out, (which is unlikely) or they have desperately bunkered themselves somewhere inside.

Robin overrides the security, pushing open the barrier so we can enter. I inspect the room and immediately recognise three promising exit strategies that wouldn't leave any traces, and two more that run the minor risk of leaving some evidence. This however, suggests that the culprit is indeed hidden here somewhere. A common thief (an amateur) would never see these opportunities to escape. It takes years of practice and a whole lot of cunning, of which I have both.

I indicate for Robin to check the staffroom and without question or argument, he does as I suggest. I decide to look in the cash office where they would lock their profits in a safe before collection in the early hours of each night. Like most stores, they leave very little in the till. Which is why very few prey on the register. They hunt for the jewels to sell. It isn't a bad business as long as you know the right buyers and what your goods are worth. I myself can spot the differences between a fake diamond and a real one with very little inspection, and I can value most gems near exact to the dollar.

Most crooks that attempt to hawk stolen jewellery rob themselves out of pure ignorance. Buyers can spot the inexperienced and they target them, like stalking the sick member of the herd to feast on. I used to take pity on them, back when I still saw my own naivety in them, but not so much anymore.

I hear the quiet scuffle of feet as I enter the office, like someone quickly pulled their knees up to their chest to fit in a small hiding space. Carefully, I approach the source of the sound and in the dim light I see the glint of the barrel of a gun, and the shadow of the man holding it. The gun trembles in his terrified grip, his forefinger hovering dangerously over the trigger.

"Don't come any closer! I have a gun!" he threatens, his voice a choked mess. I observe the man and see his petrified expression, his white shirt stained with perspiration and his dark pants that stop well above his ankles. Even his attire screams amateur. "I'll shoot! I have a gun!"

Beside him is a duffel bag with jewellery messily spilling out of it, all the necklaces tangling together in an impossible knot. Undoubtedly this decreases its value. He doesn't even look at it now, his mind miles away from the stolen goods.

"Pl...please, I just," he struggles to get the words out, his hands shaking the more he tries to talk, "I have a gun. Let me go."

He keeps repeating that he has a gun. Which seems entirely unnecessary considering he has it pointed right between my eyes. This tells me he doesn't intend to use it, instead carrying it as a ploy to harmlessly threaten with. He will not attempt to shoot me. He doesn't have it in him.

"Got a little eager, did we?" I ask gently, the cowl still turning my voice into something reverberating and intimidating. "Thought a convenience store was too small and a bank was too big. Decided to meet somewhere in the middle. Figured you'd get in and out as quick as possible, a gun in your waistband just in case. Does this sound familiar to you?"

The gun stays unsteadily aimed at my head, his gaze turning puzzled but not losing even a little of his fear. He has nowhere to run, the wall at his back and me blocking his way forward and the hopelessness of his situation seems to occur to him as he sheds a few tears.

"Please, I lost my job. I'm about to be evicted from my home," he cries, "I have debt collectors up my ass every minute of every day. I didn't know what else to do."

His desperation seems genuine, like the overwhelming truth of it all is crushing him from the inside out. He lowers the gun and unclips the magazine, revealing there were in fact no bullets in there to begin with. He had no intention to hurt anybody, whether it be a security guard, cop or otherwise. The man simply wanted to steal what he needed to take his life back. This was a motive I understood all too well. I had been there myself, looking for any means to survive, no matter the costs. And like me, he looked to do this without lethal force. But unlike him, I know how to be smart about it.

It's only a matter of time before Robin will return, having searched the rest of the building. When he does, this man will be apprehended, destined to be charged with burglary, damage to property and carrying a (most likely unlicensed) weapon. He could never afford a decent lawyer, meaning he would see at least a few years of prison time. After which he would never be able to get back on his feet. Not only will it be near impossible to be employed with a record, he will be refused rights to public housing, welfare, and food stamps. Like many others, he will be exiled from the middle to lower class, becoming one of the homeless and starving on the street. He will be either looked down upon like a diseased animal or he will be overlooked entirely; fading into nonexistence. It's this fate that forces people back to the same choices that got them there in the first place. There isn't much else they can do, each day spent debating between avoiding arrest and having something to eat that week.

In the past, I've struggled to watch as someone fell into this vicious cycle, and now I can't be the one to push someone into it. For me, there is no justice in arresting a nonviolent, desperate man.

Knowing Robin will be here any minute, I act quickly, pulling the man to his feet roughly. I grip the collar of his shirt in my fist as he cries louder and I shake him once, forcing him to swallow his tears.

"Don't ever let me see you breaking in anywhere again," I grumble, picking up the heavy duffel bag with my free hand. I briefly consider giving him just a few pieces of jewellery, enough to get him settled, but that would expose my involvement. If the entirety of the goods are missing, his escape will be more believable. "I won't be so forgiving the second time. Is that clear?"

He nods, too confused to speak and he hesitantly takes hold of the bag as I thrust the strap into his hand. I gratefully note that he was smart enough to wear gloves, making my cover up job a whole lot easier when I don't have to concern myself with erasing his fingerprints.

I escort him out briskly and he runs down the street and out of sight in the opposite direction to the approaching sirens. The police were always too slow, even for the most idiotic of thieves. This at first was a fact that I depended on. Over time, it became an unfortunate, lacklustre flaw in an otherwise exhilarating heist. This time however, it gives me an advantage.

As I established myself in my cat burglary career, I looked to many methods to find the upper hand. This eventually led me to a few nifty technological hacks. One being a device that would override surveillance footage. Wiping the feed entirely would, after a few uses, become a calling card for my crimes-sticking out like a sore thumb. So I developed a way to wipe existing footage and replace it with the footage recorded the night before without disrupting the corresponding timer. While this did not obscure the missing items, it gave them nothing to go off. It turns their attention back to business hours in which they believe they overlooked shoplifting, leaving me a free woman.

I can access the surveillance feed through any connecting circuit, including the security cameras themselves. It takes only a minute to clip the device onto the cord, waiting impatiently for the system to be rewritten.

This is a major risk that I'm taking to save the skin of a guy I do not know; the cape and cowl now tainted by the display of sympathy. It's unlikely the man will ever speak of it to anyone, and it's guaranteed that nobody would believe him if he did. But this doesn't change the fact that somebody has seen the Batman participating in a theft.

The override finishes and I tuck the device back into my belt, just as Robin enters the room.

"I searched every adjoining room in the building, the rooftop, back road and all surrounding businesses with no sign of the culprit," he tells me, disgruntled by the apparent escape of the burglar.

"There was no evidence of the property being tampered with other than the front door, and the safe is untouched," I contribute, my voice even and unrevealing. "I also scanned for fingerprints but found nothing."

"How do you suppose they escaped?"

"There are a few ways if you look hard enough. Though I think you know that as well as I do," I respond, exiting the building with Robin at my heel just as the police pull up. They do not see us as we slip into the shadows. "Most businesses such as this one have different security protocols for their operating and closing hours. They won't activate a complete lockdown during a robbery so any possible hostages don't become trapped inside the premises with their captor. Assuming he was aware of this, he would know where to look."

"So it's a he now?" Robin asks suspiciously, examining me when we are seated inside the vehicle once more.

"It's statistically more likely to be a male," I point out smoothly, stopping Robin's doubts in their tracks. But I can still feel his eyes boring into me as I drive us back towards the cave, my own eyes never looking away from the road.


	8. Chapter 8

"There's nothing." Robin has been inspecting the same surveillance footage for the last fifteen minutes; rewinding it and playing it back in quick succession. He fast-forwards through it again, knowing there is nothing to see, not even a little blip in the timer or visual to imply it's been tampered with. I've sat here watching him from a distance, sipping from a glass of ice tea, seemingly disinterested and at ease.

"There's no footage of the jewellery being stolen and no footage of us inspecting the premises," he complains, gesturing to the screen irritably, "not even from the street. How is that possible?"

"The guy must have been smart," I suggest simply, as if the theory could be the answer to any and all questions. "He knows how to clean up after himself."

"No. If the scumbag was smart he wouldn't have set off the alarm in the first place," he argues, "he can't be working alone. An interested party must have cleaned up after him to hide their own involvement."

"Why would anyone with that kind of tech use an idiot as their errand boy?" I feed the fire, knowing I must if I want to keep myself out of his suspicions.

"I don't know. Someone expendable?"

"That seems like more risk than what it's worth. Especially for someone that has so much going for them. A disposable player in the game is almost always guaranteed to rat out their employers if they think they'll be protected."

Robin sighs irritably and rewinds the footage again though he knows it's a fruitless effort. I spin around in my chair, my legs hanging over the armrest and I keep sipping at my tea. For the last few hours I have contributed very little, just watching Robin at work; much to his annoyance. If I weren't concerned that he would catch onto me, I'd be amused by his endless complaints.

"Miss Kyle," Alfred clears his voice from the staircase, parts of my uniform folded in his arms. "The bat signal has just appeared over the GCPD rooftop. I suspect Commissioner Gordon is interested to know who has taken over the role of Batman."

An unsettling sense of dread sweeps over me at the very idea of speaking to the commissioner face to face. Or rather, face to cowl. It is no secret that the man despises me. Which is understandable considering our history of playing cat and mouse. But the dislike isn't mutual, as I can't help but respect anyone with that much determination. Because the man truly commits his life to all that he does: somehow wearing his heart on his sleeve whilst remaining diligent and grounded. He's like a rock that can't be moved by the ocean, where no amount of force can overcome his unyielding resolve.

That level of commitment, though commendable, intimidates me. He has the power and the motivation to put me behind bars, and there's nothing I could say or do to change his mind. Not when his morals derive from his very soul.

But this is a meeting that's long overdue, even if it's not going to go the way I always expected it to. Surely he is expecting a previous Robin to stand before him, or at least a strong, virtuous man whom he can relate to. Definitely not an impulsive cat burglar who he has been trying to arrest for years. I just have to hope that my uniform will continue to mask my true identity.

Grudgingly, I take the suit out of Alfred's hands, leaving to get changed into it. With practice, becoming Batman was starting to an easier task. Though still undeniably uncomfortable.

With that I journey alone across Gotham to the GCPD rooftop.

I walk cautiously behind the commissioner's back and I can see that he is smoking again, the white cloud of it blowing over his shoulder with each exhale. As I draw closer, I see at least three cigarette butts at his feet, presumably from tonight whilst he waited for my arrival.

"Those things will kill you, you know," I say, making my presence known.

He turns to face me, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He takes one last, long drag of his cigarette before stamping it out with the heel of his foot. "With the state Gotham is in, dying a little early from smoking wouldn't be the worst way to go," he replies solemnly, "though I see you are trying to change that."

"Trying," I agree, "but Gotham is a difficult city to tame. You take out one criminal and three more seem to take their place."

"Often more brutal and conniving than their predecessor," he adds, looking back over the city skyline with contempt, "all trying to win an unwinnable war. It's an endless nightmare."

I don't know how he expects me to respond, as I once was a competitor in said war. None of us know exactly what started it, or what we expected to win by the end of it. All we knew was that the Batman was the only one that could finish it once and for all.

Now, somehow, this has become my duty.

"You've been lighting the signal for a long time now," I say finally, and he lights up yet another cigarette with a forlorn nod of his head.

"I knew it was just a matter of time before he sent someone in his place," he tells me. "Until then I needed to convince civilians that someone was still watching over them, and hope that the thugs would remain in hiding."

"You were far too consistent," I say, "made it too easy to spot a pattern. Anyone with half their wits could discern it and assume Batman was missing."

"Which is why you are here," he responds and holds a folder out towards me. I take it, careful not to touch his hand- as if the contact would burn me. I want to keep a fair amount of distance between us, convinced that he would recognise me if we were any closer.

I open the folder and, at a quick glance, immediately recognise reports on Penguin and Two Face's stolen goods. As I read a little more in depth, I find that the police know as much about it as we do. Which is very little.

"That's where this whole mess began but it has grown since then," the commissioner tells me, watching closer as I inspect the pages. "Our sources aren't reliable since criminals don't tend to report their stolen possessions. Particularly when they obtained said possessions through thievery.

"Whoever the culprit is, their motives are unknown. As far as we _do_ know, none of these items have appeared anywhere on the black market and our suspects are based only on criminal records. Nobody has seen the perpetrator, and they leave no traces. Our main suspect is Catwoman, but there hasn't been word of her for over a month and we have no trail to follow. It's as if she has disappeared into thin air."

"Catwoman seems the most likely," I agree, sending him further down the rabbit hole to keep him occupied while I do all the work. "She has the skillset and assumedly the motive."

"But she is leaving herself with very few possible buyers, if she were in fact planning to sell. Not to mention creating even more enemies for herself. At this rate she'll end up with her head on a pike."

"Wouldn't be much of a loss," I comment, and find him blinking at me in disbelief and… a little disgust? I realise that Bruce mustn't ever speak so bluntly and of such indifference to violence. At least not when it comes to murder. In fact, I imagine Bruce barely speaks at all, making me seem like a conversationalist in comparison. I quickly shut my mouth.

"In any case, it's imperative that we put a stop to it," he continues eventually, though now watching me with clear distrust. "Last night there was a break in at a jewellers in Burnley and the culprit escaped the scene with thousands of dollars' worth of merchandise, leaving no fingerprints or video evidence. Clearly, the surveillance was tampered with but it isn't known yet how."

He waits for me to respond but I remain silent and brooding. Eventually he resumes with a heavy sigh. "We don't believe it to be connected to the other cases. They haven't been stealing anything as common as jewellery and they have infiltrated rooms guarded by far more than the basic security system. However, it does raise suspicion that the footage was altered so seamlessly."

I deeply regret helping that man escape, now that it is creating such a headache. I should have planted false fingerprints to send them on some kind of wild goose chase, instead of leaving them empty handed. Hopefully the thief has at least made use of my assistance, getting back on his feet like I told him to.

"Anything else?" I ask finally. He takes the cigarette from his lips, contemplating his words before choosing to utter them.

"How is he?" he asks hesitantly, "How is _Batman_?"

I frown, stepping a little closer. "That depends. What do you know about his situation?" I can feel my heart hammering in my chest.

"I'm the one that found him," he says, "with the shape he was in, I didn't expect him to survive."

"You need to tell me exactly what happened," I demand. "I'm putting my life on the line for that man. I think that gives me the right to know the truth."

With some hesitation, he tells me how Bruce came to be the bedridden man he is today. He recalls how he had found Bruce unconscious, close to death, his body torn, bloody and most his bones shattered. He tells me how he had gripped Bruce tight and dragged him out of the wreckage, signalling Alfred in the cave for help. After that, he had left that dying man behind, hoping that somehow he would survive against all the odds.

Because Batman always survived, he always persevered and no amount of fractured bones could stop him.

Only a broken spirit could kill the Batman. And Bruce's spirit was indeed broken. It was he who triggered the explosives that were planted along the sewer walls, killing twenty-three orphan children that were being held captive inside. The commissioner, to this day, does not know how Batman had tracked the kidnappers down or what mistakes led to the children's deaths. All he knows is that Gotham still needed a Batman, and so he had never told anyone that Bruce had been there at all.

"I want to do what's good and what's right, but sometimes they're not the same thing," he tries to explain his actions. Excuse his wrongdoings. But it sounds as though he is trying to convince himself more than he is me. "I had to decide between this city and the truth, and I chose Gotham. The people need the Batman and so I provided the illusion of one. Maybe that's good… but it sure as hell isn't right."

At this truth, I feel anger pounding through my body, my face growing hot. My quickening pulse is audible in my ears, like a rhythmic beating drum. Not only is my illusion of Bruce's incorruptibility gone, leaving the disconcerting view of a dishonest man behind, but my impression of Commissioner Gordon has been forever tainted. Now I can't look beyond his hypocrisy. How he dares understand that life only comes in shades of grey and yet still work as though it were black and white.

I believe he senses this, as he bows his head in shame, reaching for yet another cigarette but the pack is empty. Perhaps I had misinterpreted his unhealthy habit. Assumed too early that he was merely worried for Bruce's wellbeing. The truth is that he smokes out of guilt, as if trying to suffocate the secret only he and Bruce have the burden of carrying. The burden they each deserve for creating the secret in the first place.

I think back on my mentality when I let the terrified burglar escape with the sack of jewellery. I went against all the rules to give that man another chance at life. Perhaps that was good, noble even, but that choice didn't end with everyone remaining unscathed. The owners of that store would have suffered, maybe even terribly depending on their own financial situation. I was aware of this unfortunate reality when I watched the man run down the street, bag in hand. But I made the choice anyway, knowing it wasn't the right thing to do. The difference between my choice and the commissioner's however, is twenty-three dead orphans.

But that isn't to say my decisions haven't caused the death of innocent people. They have. Once. Many nights ago now, but the memory of it has never escaped me and won't fade.

When I look in the commissioner's eyes, I am reflected in his glasses, and I don't like what I see.

Maybe Bruce and I are more alike than he would care to admit. We are both poison to those that get too close to us. And maybe Gordon has a point when he says that good and right don't always align, and for Bruce and me they _never_ do.

"You really should quit smoking, Commissioner," I say finally, and he refuses to take the folder as I hold it out towards him. He insists that I'll make more use out of it than his team can. "You should let Gotham kill you slowly. Painfully. We all should."

"I have no doubt it will," he says, his shame never leaving his expression, "I can't say we don't deserve it."

"You're right. You can't." I begin to walk to the edge of the rooftop. "I am not the same as him. I won't always come when I'm called. I'll show up when I choose to… _if_ I choose to."

With that I leap over the edge, grappling to the rooftop of the next building and onwards into the night, the bat signal still shining at my back.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well, Commissioner Gordon didn't arrest you, so I suppose you performed well enough," Robin says, still sitting where I had left him but he is no longer watching over the surveillance. "I've sent away the video footage to Oracle. I figured she of all people could detect any alterations in the file and maybe rewrite it."

"It's a dead end!" I snap, tossing the folder down in front of him, "focus your attention where it matters most. Look through the archives and see if you can find anyone that fits the profile. Someone aside from me who is capable of these high risk thefts."

I pull the cowl from my head, roughly running a hand through my hair to keep it out of my eyes and walk past him towards the stairs. He must sense the anger radiating off me as he doesn't offer any comments and does exactly what I say. Which is a rarity. Ordinarily he would feed off my frustration and contribute to it knowing there was nothing I could do to hurt him without consequence. Were he to insult me right now I don't doubt that I would punch him in the throat just to keep him from talking.

Smart kid. Seems to know when to keep his distance. When he ought to shut up.

Alfred tries to stop me on the stairs as I beeline for Bruce's bedroom, a fire burning in my eyes. "Miss Kyle! You must stop at once! Master Bruce does not wish to see you!"

"Sometimes I wish he loved me and other times I wish I never met him. We don't always get what we want, Alfred," I snarl and bang my fist against the door three times in quick succession. Even in this state I wouldn't wrestle a key from an old man. I'd sooner kick the door down.

"Bruce! I know you can hear me in there, and I want you to listen well. I know you killed those children!"

"Miss Kyle!" Alfred barks, a true rage bursting from within as his paternal instincts take over. He knows I just threatened Bruce's wellbeing. As if I were twisting the knife still embedded in Bruce's chest to intensify his pain.

"Those children died because of you! You triggered those explosions and the last thing they would have felt was fear. Maybe some of them died in pain, their flesh burning in the fire, others asphyxiating on the smoke, some crushed beneath the rubble. That was your mistake. You can't just kick dirt over your failings and then go into hiding."

Alfred moves to stand between me and the door as I begin to work on the lock again. Though weakened with age, the man somehow towers over me, his feet firmly planted there like a brick wall. He would give his life for Bruce and would rather suffer all the battle wounds that comes with the sacrifice. As I reopen all of Bruce's healing scars, Alfred bleeds with him, and that's what makes me take a step back.

Alfred's chest heaves with deep breaths, like a bull before it charges, and his hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides. The older man will not move for anything, creating an additional barrier between me and the boy he vowed to protect.

"Let her in, Alfred," a tired voice says from beyond the door, barely audible. "She has every right to be angry with me. She and I have a lot in common."

That last remark stings and the blood drains from my face, my skin running cold in a sudden shiver as if he ripped the soul from my body. Because he isn't wrong. He and I both have blood on our hands, a secret we've each held onto. That's mostly why I am so furious with him. I had to face my demons alone though he knew what I had done, and he refused to share his own. Then he had the audacity to dress me up in his lie, making me believe I was embodying justice. He promised me I could shed the skin of a murderer and stitch together something clean and new. Instead I wear the uniform of a man with a body count of twenty-three.

Worse. Twenty-three children. Orphans, like him and me.

Finally, Alfred unlocks the door and follows me into the room. At first all I see is a pile of blankets, until I realise that Bruce is buried beneath them. His body is covered in casts and bandages, the shadows of bruises and healing cuts covering his face. But what stands out amongst it all is his eyes. His blue gaze is flat, defeated, as if death has already befallen him and all that is left is an empty, broken shell. There is no sign of recognition in those eyes as he watches me standing before him. Not even that familiar look of disappointment. Right now, I would gladly welcome it. Anything is better than this blank slate.

"Selina," he whispers, forcing himself to sit up further and Alfred moves to assist him but Bruce waves him off. Alfred must see something in his stare that I can't as he wordlessly nods and leaves the room, as if a message telepathically passed between them. Years of companionship has made them the closest of kin.

"I know you didn't mean for those children to die," I mumble, crossing my arms because I don't know what to do with my hands. I hadn't expected the sight of him to dissolve my aggravation, and yet I feel the urge to caress his cheek or hold his hand. I can't help but pity him. "But you should have admitted to it. They deserved that much, Bruce. They and those who care about them."

"They were orphans… nobody cares," he sighs, averting his gaze.

I frown, moving to sit on the end of the bed by his feet. "That's not true. A very good man once told me that somebody always cares. Even if you can't see it." Surely Bruce must have taught Dick that. He must have played a part in the younger man's kindness. It has to resonate with him in some way.

"Those children haunt me," he admits finally, giving no indication as to whether my words have impacted him or not. "They died because I sought revenge."

"Revenge for what?"

"Their kidnappers were conducting a child labour scheme. Didn't seem all that complex from an outsider's perspective… so I left it to Dick and Robin to resolve. To keep them practiced. On their toes," he explains. "Even then I should have known better. I should have looked closer. Maybe if I had, they would have gone into it more prepared. But I didn't, and Robin payed the ultimate price. He was near fatally shot. We believed that if the shock didn't kill him then the blood loss would and I just… I saw history repeating itself."

Instinctively, I reach out and touch his leg over the blanket. If it causes him more pain he fails to show it, continuing his story without interruption.

"My mistakes have caused all kinds of terrible fates," he breathes dejectedly, and I know he means what happened to Barbara. Robin told me how he has never forgiven himself for what the Joker did to her. He must blame himself too for how this aggrieved Gordon and Dick, their lives forever changed for the worse by Barbara's paralysis. "I couldn't allow my decisions to kill that boy so I went after his attacker."

"It's the only way you've ever known how to cope," I say gently.

He winces, hurt by the truth of my words. He represses reality itself. He hides from all that can hurt him and the emotions he wishes he could control.

"And you found them," I say, beginning to see what happened next.

"In the sewers," he nods weakly. "I didn't know the children were there with them. I didn't know about the explosives. I went in there body first and mind second and that mistake… it slaughtered them. Had I just assessed my surroundings; formulated a plan before entering the sewer I could have deactivated the explosives. Nobody had to die."

"That's when the Commissioner found you," I sigh, shaking my head, "and he dragged you out of the wreckage."

"Upon receiving the emergency signal from Jim, Alfred contacted Dick who came to my aid," Bruce explains, "the three of them together are the reason I'm alive. I didn't deserve that compassion and care then. I certainly don't deserve it now."

"Are you saying that _I_ don't deserve such compassion either?" I ask quietly.

"No. I'd never believe that."

"You would. If I sought revenge on Matthew," I argue, "you said that if I crossed that line, you wouldn't be able to forgive me. Those exact words, Bruce."

"You chose not to murder him," he points out, placing his hand over mine.

"That isn't exactly true. If he were standing in front of me now I don't believe I'd show him any amount of mercy. Not after what he's done, and what he continues to do. He's far too dangerous to be allowed to live."

Bruce grimaces, retracting his hand as if stung. Again I feel that distance between us.

Some part of him must resonate with me. The part of him that looks at the Joker and feels that same murderous desire. It's the part that chooses not to act on it that keeps him so far from me. He won't allow himself to go down that road and do what needs to be done. No matter how many lives could be saved by doing so.

"You still don't understand," he stares at me with those flat eyes, "no matter how hard I try, I can't make you understand."

"Funny. I could say the same thing about you," I stand up, taking a step or two away from the bed. "You say you saw history repeating itself. What exactly do you think is happening right now? How do you suppose this is all going to end if you won't do what is necessary?"

"I think my broken bones speak volumes for what happens when you seek vengeance, not justice."

"No. They speak only of what happens when you don't prepare. And that's a very good lesson that you have taught me, Bruce."

I move to the door though he reaches out to me, a fleeting look of desperation crossing his features. I won't allow it to break me this time. I won't allow my sympathy dominance again. My hand hovers over the door handle as I hesitate to leave. I can't quite decide whether to twist the knife further or pull it out.

"I'll keep being Batman for now. But just know I'm not doing it for you," I hiss. There's a venom in my voice unlike anything I've ever heard before. It's so biting. So final. He recoils from the deadliness of my words. "Nothing I ever do from now on is for you. I don't work for cowards."


	10. Chapter 10

He stares at me as I inspect him, but doesn't complain. He can't. He blew his brains out.

The body is odourless. Still far too fresh to smell of decay. So fresh in fact, that it's barely cold. His skin is tinted slightly blue, but mostly it's just pale white, and solid like marble. His limbs sit stiff, legs stretched out in front of him and his arms hanging at his sides. The gun is still clasped in his right hand. The blood splatter behind his head is still wet, but darkening as it slowly dries.

"His name was Adam Swift. He was a guard at Arkham Asylum," Robin tells me, kneeling at my side.

I look into the dead man's eyes and wonder what he must have been thinking in his last moments as he put the gun in his mouth. I imagine for most people it's usually along the lines of _'_ _goodbye, cruel world_ _'_.

"Any history of mental illness?" I ask Robin.

"None. All Arkham employees undergo psychotherapy before being inducted. After Harleen Quinzel went off her rocker they made it mandatory to repeat the process again every four months to determine whether they are stable enough for the job."

"Huh. Because how many people go crazy only _after_ they've gone to the nuthouse?"

"His co-workers all say he seemed happy enough though he mostly kept to himself. Always came in on time, didn't cause any problems. The commissioner is gaining access to his files as we speak. Though I don't think they'll enlighten us any," Robin says.

I gesture to the ring on Adam's left hand, "He was married. Any kids?"

"Two. The eldest, a boy, is six, the girl is four."

"And look at this apartment," I say, now gesturing around the room, "sure it's a bit small for a family of four, but it's stable. Certainly middle to upper class. A good life and no known history of mental illness. What does that tell you?"

"Normally it would point to foul play," he agrees, "but I looked and there are no fingerprints on that gun aside from his own and the bullet is a match for that make and model."

I stand upright and slowly circle the office. It's tidy, consistently organised. Definitely not the standard conditions for a supposedly hysterical, suicidal man. I've seen manic depression at work before. I've seen it up close and personal, and it's chaotic and dark. My mother, in those last few weeks, wouldn't get out of bed. Something I couldn't see kept her held captive there, holding her down like a weight pressing down on her chest. She would have to fight against the invisible ties on her wrists to escape and I think that pain eventually led to her decision to stop trying. In her last few days she would lay there staring up at the flaking paint on the ceiling, as if the random patterns it created were ever-changing pictures. I tried to see the same story they were telling her but I couldn't see beyond blank pages no matter how hard I looked. I wanted to see through her eyes so I could untie those ropes and save her.

What I learned as a child is that we never suffer the same way, and I've seen it come in many forms. But I have never seen suffering like this. Which makes it hard to believe it exists here at all.

"Sometimes people just snap, you know?" Robin says, watching me.

I peruse the few books he kept neatly displayed on the bookshelf. Turning around, I inspect the family photos he has framed on his desk, his children smiling back at me. Then I stop and read through the organised pile of paid bills. This is normality at its finest.

That's when I reach the desk chair that is no longer facing the desk. Instead it faces the body, faint scuff marks on the floor tracing the path it was dragged along. It doesn't fit the organised space around it. I inspect the fabric and find stains that aren't blood or dirt, but they certainly aren't food or drink. Can't be. Considering the state he kept the office in.

"Seems to me Adam had an audience when he decorated the walls with his brains," I murmur, cutting the material of the chair around the marks, tucking the samples away to examine later. If I can identity the substance then perhaps I can discover who our unwelcome guest was or at least where they have been.

Robin places his finger over his earpiece, focusing on whomever is speaking to him and then he turns to me with urgency. "Another Arkham employee just committed suicide."

"Gunshot like this one?"

He shakes his head and leads me to the door. "Worse. The guy leapt from his tenth storey window to his death."

The pavement has been blocked off by police tape and officers circle the space, trying to keep the hungry reporters at bay but the cameras continue to flash. Their voices shout over one another, asking undiscernible questions with no answers. As Robin and I approach, I see the blood on the cement, bleeding into the cracks. Then I see the body, the back of its skull completely crushed in from where it landed. It isn't a pretty sight; more like a sack of flesh filled with shards of bone than a person.

Two officers stand together, barricading us from the crime scene before the commissioner calls them off irritably. I can see his fingers itching for a cigarette as he lifts the tape up over our heads. Instinctively, the other officers back away, intimidated by our presence but are still unwilling to argue. Yet I see hands held over weapon holsters, prepared to arm themselves if they must. Being Batman hasn't done much to heal my relationship with the police department, it seems.

"Neighbours say they heard terrified screaming and the shattering of glass as furniture was thrown around. That was before hearing the window breaking as he ran headlong into it," Gordon informs me as I bend down beside the body. It's difficult not to step in the ever-growing pool of blood.

"Any ties between this body and the first?" I ask.

"Aside from working at Arkham Asylum, nothing. The two have never even worked alongside each other. Completely different hours."

"This suicide is much more gruesome than the first," Robin says, looking up towards the shattered window above us.

"You've got that right," Gordon says gruffly and gestures to the body, "the guy's eyes are completely torn up. Take a look at them… Or rather, at what isn't left of them."

I carefully examine the body, gazing into the bloody sockets where his eyes once were. His cheeks are covered in deep scratches around the gaping holes. Then I look to his hands, his fingers are smeared in his own blood and gore. He had clawed his eyes out himself. Not exactly what one would call a standard suicide.

"Robin, take samples of his blood, skin, and hair. Then take swabs from under his nails. Perhaps he scratched at more than his eyes," I instruct and try to enter the apartment complex only to feel Gordon's hand grab my arm.

"I can't allow you to tamper with the body," he says sternly, "I'm already putting my head on the chopping block by letting you into the first crime scene unsupervised. Or at all for that matter. Hell, you weren't meant to come here until I had the space cleared."

I make no attempt to shake off his grip. I don't need to. " _You_ called _us_. Which tells me these cases shouldn't be left in your incompetent hands. So I suggest you let go of me. That is if you want to keep your hand."

He loosens his grip and then finally let's go, allowing me to step around him into the building. The reporters' cameras flash faster still and I can picture the headlines now: ' _Commissioner Gordon and His Tense Relationship with the Bat_ _'_ or ' _Gotham_ _'_ _s Commissioner under Batman_ _'_ _s Thumb_.'

Wouldn't it interest readers to know that their supposed straight shooter answers to me: the vigilante justice so many of them oppose. I can imagine their surprise if they were to discover all that he done. Just how far he will go for Batman. So far as to withhold the truth of those sewer explosions. It's because I'm in on the secret that he chooses not to threaten me. He's afraid I'll expose him.

"Bruce won't appreciate you talking to him like that," Robin whispers as he walks into the victim's apartment, tucking numerous samples into his utility belt.

"Gordon's a big boy, he can handle it," I say simply. "Besides, I don't give a damn what Bruce thinks."

Robin stops and looks around the room, raising an eyebrow at the state it's in. It's the exact opposite of the last crime scene, the furniture thrown around and glass shards scattered all over the floor. Pages are spread out in disarray and the curtains have been torn to shreds. There is also blood everywhere. Smeared along the wallpaper and sprayed over the carpet.

"That explains the shards of mirror I found embedded in his knuckles," Robin says and indicates to the broken, bloody mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.

"Punched the mirror and then gouged out his own eyes? Seems to me there was something he _really_ didn't want to see. Bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

"The door was broken off its hinges from the outside," Robin is ignoring me, focusing his attention instead on the room. "These dirt treads indicate only one person entered the apartment. The victim most likely started throwing objects at the intruder, as they often do before angling themselves towards the kitchen."

"Why the kitchen?" I question, moving to inspect it. But the kitchen is completely untouched.

Robin points to the phone, "Most people try to get a hold of a knife to defend themselves with. Then they try to call for help. Something or someone stopped him from getting that far."

"Somehow a home invasion turned into a cheap horror flick," I say, "what gives?"

Robin shrugs, "Let's find out."

"His blood is laced with Scarecrow's toxin," Robin says finally as he reads over the test results. "But the first victim is clean."

I don't look up from my own work as I try to identify the stains found on the first victim's desk chair. Unfortunately, I don't have the greatest understanding of chemicals as I've never before had a reason to learn about them. It is admittedly frustrating that a thirteen year old kid is smarter than I am. Better educated. It makes me wonder where I could have ended up if I had grown up elsewhere. If I had been raised differently. For the time Robin has been under the Wayne's roof must have been kind to him, intellect wise. Kind enough that he could really build a life for himself away from this city if he ever decided to. People like me don't have that luxury. I'll always be trapped here unless I steal enough to make my way forward, but why would I? There's no point if I'll only repeat history someplace new.

"Can you show me the sample results?" I sigh finally, admitting defeat. I'll need an existing formula that I can try to match my samples to, if there are in fact any similarities at all.

Robin makes no comment as he passes the report to me with the chemical names and balances, with images of the microscopic view of the substance. Then he waits patiently as I compare them, making no attempt to assist. He must understand that I need to do this alone. After all, I'm not exactly the sort that asks for help.

"I can't be certain but these seem like a match to me," I say, "same squiggly lines under the microscope. They kind of look like the inflatable arm flailing tube men they have outside car lots."

"Mind if I-" Robin starts but I hold up a hand to stop him.

"Just do it," I mutter and move aside so he can verify. I can't hold it against him. He's being rather polite about my unskillfulness.

He takes the fabric and moves it under another, more technical microscope, and I watch, mesmerised as a laser beams down onto it. Almost immediately the computer registers the substance and can identify all the individual elements in the stain. Then he does the same with the blood sample he took from the second victim. After a brief moment, the computer registers this too and confirms their matching features though the balances are different. The toxin found in the blood is far more concentrated. But it's a match all the same.

"Why didn't we do that to begin with?" I cross my arms, exasperated.

Robin seems sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders. "Dick told me not to take lessons away when they presented themselves," he admits, "but he also told me not to tell you that. He knew you wouldn't appreciate being treated like an incompetent burden."

"He thinks I'm incompetent?"

" _Thought_ ," he corrects quickly, "now he seems rather fond of you. God knows why."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Robin," I remark sarcastically, shaking my head a little.

There's a long silence so I turn back to the computer to access employee records from Arkham. With a short phone call, Oracle had agreed to hack into their system for us as suddenly Commissioner Gordon was unwilling to share them with me. At least until his own team had opportunity to investigate them first. Which implies that he is trying to regain dominance in our working relationship. Unsurprisingly he and I aren't getting along so well.

"It's Damian."

"What was that?" I spin round in my chair, raising an eyebrow.

"My name is Damian," he repeats, his eyes cast to the ground and his lips becoming a tight, thin line as he tenses his jaw.

"What made you decide to tell me that now?" I smile coyly, undeniably touched by the gesture. I didn't believe he would ever find me trustworthy or deserving enough.

He shrugs, still glaring at the floor as if it had done something to personally offend him. I've been on the receiving end of that look before and know that it isn't a good place to be.

"Pennyworth keeps insisting I trust you," he mumbles, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "And, you know… you seem to trust me more than Bruce or Dick do."

"They aren't confident in your capabilities, huh?"

"They don't think I can handle the responsibility," he tells me, "and it makes teamwork into more of a 'follow the leader' type experience. But you don't try to hold me back or correct me like they do. Which isn't to say you don't piss me off at times. Because you do."

"Glad I could be of service," I grin, "if I've pissed you off it means I've done a good job."

He shakes his head, trying to fight off a smile and turns back to the work at hand. Right now he looks more like a kid than ever. Just like a regular teenager. I guess under that harsh exterior that is all he has ever truly been. Suddenly, I understand that's how Dick finds a way to love him. It's the same reason why he and Bruce keep him from the full extent of this job.

As I see through their eyes, I realise they consider him a child first and a warrior second.

"The two victims never worked alongside each other but they did guard the same ward. Scarecrow's cell was located there until he escaped two months ago under suspicious circumstances," Damian says.

"Suspicious circumstances?"

"No alarms sounded. No guards intercepted him and there was no sign of his cell door being tampered with," he explains, "he just simply walked out. His escape wasn't even reported until the next morning when they discovered his cell was empty. By that point he was long gone."

"Inside job," I guess, "and how much do you want to bet that our deceased gentlemen had a part to play?"

Damian frowns, searching the two men's records with an intense look of concentration, gnawing his bottom lip a little between his teeth. Then he sighs heavily, suggesting he didn't find the answers he was looking for. "If they did, then why kill them?"

"Ah, Damian. Asking all the right questions," I grin wickedly. I had found a new sense of intrigue over the crimes. An intense fascination with solving my first set of murders. "Why don't we ask the maniac Doctor himself?"

Over one long, dreary week, we became borderline obsessive over Scarecrow's case. It was our fruitless efforts that kept us driven day and night, unstuck from the parameters of time. Which meant that we rarely slept, the hours within each day seeming to fluctuate with our growing mania, warping and swelling to allow us more time. Or at least what felt like more time. The reality was that we were exhausted, withdrawn from life and all its little intricacies like eating and sleeping.

Alfred would bring us five meals in what seemed like a full day but was actually just twelve hours, watching disconcertedly as each dish was left untouched or barely picked at, like rats or roaches had slowly feasted on it before retreating to their dark hidey holes. But he never offered any commentary on the matter, eventually distancing himself from us altogether. Either he was trying not to interrupt our investigation, arguing that the more we worked the sooner it would be over, or he'd grown frustrated with our refusal to take care of ourselves. I assumed the latter to be true, as his expression grew darker and more aggrieved each time he entered the cave with our meals. The servings of which becoming smaller and smaller each and every time, like he knew it was to go to waste.

Then eventually, after the seventh day had passed, Damian finally threw in the towel, now leaning back in his seat with a tense groan and he stretches his arms high above his head. He cranes his neck and I hear muffled cracks as he works the stiffness from it and he lets out a gentle sigh.

"I'm calling it," he says, sounding discouraged as he keys something into the computer. "I'm contacting Grayson. See if he has any ideas."

"You do that," I yawn, finally allowing myself to sit back and I reach for the half of a sandwich that Alfred had brought me sometime before though I can't remember when. Most likely hours ago. The bread is soggy when I bite into it, and the crust is stale but it is still the most delicious thing I've eaten in a long time and I quickly finish it off.

Wordlessly, Damian pushes his own plate towards me and I practically inhale the other half of the sandwich and then use my pinkie finger to pick up the little leftover crumbs, licking them off until the plates are clean.

Damian's expression is of utter disgust, his nose wrinkled and lips puckered into a grimace. "That's just gross."

"What can I say? I was hungry," I shrug, smiling with immense satisfaction. The shake of his head is so miniscule that I can't be sure whether it was real or just a figment of my imagination.

"Heaven forbid I ever accidentally witness how you eat without an audience," he mutters, shuddering at the thought.

I laugh with just an exhale through my nose, like a soft hiss, only mildly amused by the banter.

"Sweetheart, if that day ever comes, I'll have to kill you," I warn innocently.

"That wouldn't be necessary. The sight alone would send me into cardiac arrest," he retorts smoothly with a slight upturn in his lips and a pale tint of red in his cheeks. The faintest hint of a smile.

Ever since he had opened up to me it's like I have been introduced to a whole new person. Someone equally cunning and skilful and brutal, but someone more akin to human kind. Though he still struggles to balance himself around me… or around anyone for that matter. His attempts at inoffensive teasing sometimes strikes too close to home, beating up old wounds and rehashing histories that ought to be forgotten.

But he's slowly learning. The way he applies himself to understanding acceptable social behaviour is commendable. Even if he never quite comprehends certain gestures like hugging. For him, a friendly embrace is so foreign and uncharacteristic that he simply cannot act upon them, whether giving or receiving. It's a habit he finds difficult to learn. More so than any physical combat or technical skill, as if violence is simply written in his DNA.

I can't begin to imagine what that must feel like for him. Being unskilled in the field of basic human decency and having to teach yourself how to love.

I like to think that I've helped him in this pursuit to learn.

Abruptly, Dick appears on the monitor, blinking tiredly at us with his hair in disarray as though he had only just gotten out of bed. I realise then that I actually don't know what time it is. He covers his mouth with his fist as he yawns and then tries to rub the sleep from his eyes but it doesn't seem to wake him up any.

"How is that I don't sleep for two days and then the second I finally doze off you two knuckleheads decide to give me a call?" his voice is filled with accusation and genuine annoyance but he doesn't hang up.

"We need your help with two recent murder cases concerning Scarecrow," Robin isn't sympathetic to Dick's exhaustion and doesn't appear at all sorry for waking him.

"What about them?" he groans, running his hands through his hair, making it messier still.

"I'll send through our reports," I say, "but what we really need is to track Scarecrow down. The bastard has hidden himself well."

"So you've exhausted all of Scarecrow's usual locations?" Dick asks through the computer screen, his eyes now fixed upon a computer to his left.

"No. I searched for him at the coffee shop and the supermarket," I remark sarcastically, "should I be looking in strip clubs instead?"

"No need to be so pissy," Dick shakes his head but his attention remains focused on whatever it is he is reading.

"Robin and I have looked high and low for the guy. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

"Well he is one of the smarter ones," he says, "albeit one of the crazier ones."

"Doesn't make for a good mix, does it." It isn't a question.

Over the years we had both witnessed what unruly amounts of intelligence and insanity could create. What kinds of destruction it could leave in its wake. It made for fearsome opponents because not only were they cunning, but they were unpredictable too. Which only made them all the more difficult to overcome.

But the real worrisome part was that, to me at least, their actions sometimes made an unsettling amount of sense. Say if the Joker was to release his toxic gas in a comedy show, making the audience die laughing. There's something poetic in that. Utterly crazy and unwarranted, sure. But it makes sense. It's this understanding that has often left me questioning my own sanity.

And I wonder if people like the Joker and Scarecrow look at the rest of the world and think ' _they_ _'_ _re the crazy ones_ _'_.

"There's a building along the outskirts of the city that's getting some unusual attention," Dick says finally, sending me some coordinates.

"But it isn't abandoned," Robin points out.

"You're right, it's not. But the owners haven't been seen for over a week. Ever since their disappearance there have been reports of strange occurrences in the vicinity of that building."

"Strange how?"

"People believe it to be haunted." he explains, "But their reports all differ from one another. They've all seen something that one could consider terrifying, like swarms of insects or snakes… or bats. But nobody has ever claimed to have seen the exact same thing."

"That is strange," I agree, "Do you think Scarecrow's been dishing out some of his delicious toxin?"

"Quite possibly. Either way it's worth checking out."


	11. Chapter 11

"Doesn't it give you the creeps?" I ask Damian as we approach the building. The exterior seems untouched, barely weathered by the elements, and the blinds are drawn on all the windows, making it appear dark and uninhabited. But it gives off this sickening vibe that settles within the pit of your stomach, twisting and churning your insides the closer you get to the front door. It's as if something malevolent is lurking just beyond it, watching us with cruel intent.

"Not really," Damian shrugs indifferently and stops at the front door. He bends down and slips a small, silver device under the door and brings up a holographic screen from his left gauntlet, using the touch pad to control the device. I wait patiently, watching the reverse view of the video as Robin searches the building.

"There's at least four people on the bottom floor," he whispers after a minute or two, "but it's too dark to do any facial recognition."

"Best approach?" I ask, giving him the opportunity to take charge of the situation. Ever since he had put his trust in me I have wanted to show that I trust him equally in return.

"The space is too small for stealth and there aren't any vantage points," he assesses carefully.

"We could just storm in and kick some ass?" I suggest, pulling a smoke bomb from my utility belt and holding it out where he can see.

He grins darkly at the idea and nods eagerly, "I like your style."

I step back a little and then put all my force into one single kick to knock the door from its hinges and it splinters as it falls with a loud crash. Alerted by the sound, the first four men run towards the entry, two aiming their guns, one wielding a crowbar and another with their fists raised. I toss the smoke bomb at their feet and it erupts. One man stupidly starts blindly firing.

Robin storms in ahead of me and I hear a pained cry and a bang as somebody's weight hits the floor. I follow him, using my heat sensors to find the thugs amongst the smoke. Another shot is fired and I hear it hit the wall behind me as I rush forward and knee the man in the gut, clutching onto his gun and tugging it from his grip. With one quick motion I knock him unconscious with the butt of the gun and I empty out its ammo before dropping it at my feet.

Behind me I hear more shouting and the swing of the crowbar followed by a crack and another pained yell. My sensors allow me to see the shapes of five more men running down the stairs to join the fight, and the smoke is beginning to disperse. Robin lands a swift kick to a thug's groin, making them double over in throbbing pain and he leaps over their head, disarming another man easily. But with the extra men now cramped into the small room, foolishly firing without restraint, I can't risk dropping another smoke bomb. Thugs or not, I can't allow anyone to be killed, even by a bullet from someone else's gun.

Irritated, I grab three batarangs from my belt and throw each in quick succession, two hitting their mark and piercing the hands of two of the armed men. They drop their weapons at the impact and clutch their bleeding hands, enraged. I take advantage of their weakened state and go in with hard hits, eventually slamming their heads together with a crack and they fall unconscious.

I'm suddenly struck with a wooden plank and the suit does little to keep my shoulder from aching, but it keeps it from breaking my bones. I duck down as more bullets are fired in my direction and Robin sweeps in, taking out the men responsible for the near misses. Seeing Damian in action I am reminded just how vicious he can be, his punches landing impossibly harder than my own. He snatches the wooden plank from one of them, using it as a melee weapon until it snaps in half from the brutal swings.

More men are swarming the house now, alerted to the attack on the group and I punch one man in the throat. His hands fumble at his neck, as though trying to force it into accepting more oxygen and he falls to his knees. As he slips down I see a cloaked shadow past him slipping out through the back door into the street. I know it has to be Scarecrow, and he is making his escape, allowing his men to fight for him.

"He's getting away!" I shout to Robin who is still fighting fiercely, barely avoiding more fired bullets as they fly past him.

"Go after him!" he shouts back without hesitation.

I fight off two men as they try to force me back, the adrenaline pumping through my veins at the risk of Scarecrow escaping. I exit through the same door as the cloaked figure and run down the street into the night, looking for any sign of his heat signature. There's a thick fog hanging in the air, swirling gently in the breeze, making it difficult to see anything in the distance.

I force myself to run faster, my lungs arguing with the effort as I take short, laboured breaths. But then the street is changing, morphing into a different place altogether. I pause when I come upon a house that's sitting where the road once was and I'm standing on a dead lawn, the grass crisp under my bare child sized feet. The house looms tall over me, the creaking of the strong wind against the wood familiar to my ears. The paint is pale and chipped, whittled away from the heavy rain the last few winters had brought with it. It's evident that there hasn't been any maintenance done for the last few years, the windows groaning as if the whole structure is straining itself to stay upright.

I know this house. I lived here before my parents died. Before I became just another orphan in the system.

I hated this house.

I'm afraid to go in through the front door, knowing what is waiting for me inside, and so I turn around with the intention of going back the way I came. But the road is gone from behind me and I am facing the house again. I look around me desperately, stepping from one foot to the other nervously but the house is on all sides now. The more I turn, the closer they seem to get, until I barely have room left to stand, the corners of each house touching and boxing me in.

My heart is hammering wildly in my chest, audible in my ears like a beating drum and it grows deafening as I walk up the porch steps. I grip the handrail tightly but it disintegrates in my hand, splintering away until it is the same consistency as ash.

The door sticks the same way I remember it did all those years ago and it only swings open when I push all my weight against it, leading me into the hallway. It seems to stretch on forever, the paint crumbling away before my eyes. _The whole house is dying_ , I think painfully, too afraid to place my hand upon the walls in case they cave in at my touch.

I can feel sharp splinters in my feet as I walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway. But it does end, opening up into the kitchen. Hesitantly, I peer in, my eyebrows knitting together in worry at what, or who, I might find, but there is nothing out of place. Empty bottles are strewn over the counters and floor, and the different smells of bourbon, rum and beer assault my senses, making me feel faint and sick in the stomach. This familiar concoction of aromas had become an unwelcome resident in my house, lingering on my skin, clothes, and in my hair, following me wherever I went like a shadow. Even today the odour made me ill at ease, shivers climbing up my spine like bugs crawling under my skin.

I have never had a drink; convinced that the taste would make me throw up. Or worse. The alcohol could taste like honey on my tongue, it could roll smoothly down my throat like medicine and could settle comfortably in my stomach. I could come to depend on it the way my father did, allowing it to poison me as I tried to drown my sorrows, desperately searching for happiness at the bottom of each and every bottle I consumed. That ever-present anxiety kept me from ever touching the stuff.

I can hear the faint buzzing of the television in the next room and the snores of my father as he slumbers, intoxicated, on the couch. A fearful tremble passes through me, leaving goose bumps up my arms and legs at the sound. Involuntarily I find myself tiptoeing towards it, knowing I will find him passed out there, his body too big to properly fit on the small couch.

Just as expected, I see his legs hanging over the end of the lounge, one arm crossed over his chest and the other dragging over the side onto the floor. There are remnants of vomit down his chin and neck, staining his shirt; and I remember thinking, as a child, that he could one day choke on it.

I remember secretly hoping he would.

My fear had derived not the thought of him dying, but rather from the fact that he wasn't dead yet.

He's dead now, good riddance. Has been for many years. But here he is in front of me, exactly the way I remember him. And it all feels so real. The smell of vomit and alcohol, the rumble of his snores, the solidity of his body. It feels real so it has to be real. Which fills me with an impossible amount of dread.

Afraid he may wake up, I continue up the stairs, each step disappearing after my foot lifts off it so I can't turn back. When I reach the top I am faced with the doorway to the bathroom and I have no choice but to go in, knowing exactly what I'll find.

I try to avert my eyes from my mother's lifeless body but the room keeps shrinking in on me until I have to step into the full, freezing bathtub with her. I sink down until my lower half is completely submerged in the blood red water and I finally let my gaze trail upwards to her pale face. She is staring back at me with those dead eyes, the pain still etched into her features.

What had caused that pain?

For years I feared it was me, knowing I had been born an accident. I think she resented me for being in her life, as if I had forced myself into existence just to torment her. At the very least I knew for sure that she blamed me for her husband's alcoholism and for their poverty. In her eyes, I had arrived a screaming bundle of hostility. Destined to bear down on them until their bodies cracked apart like porcelain.

I believe I _did_ somehow do this to her, as if my hand had guided hers as she cut vertically into her wrists. A part of me still wonders whether I would have done it, had the unkind years continued to pass agonizingly slow like torture. I had wanted to ease her suffering for so long… so much so, that maybe I could have killed her had she asked it of me. But it was that unsettling thought that tickled at the back of my mind telling me I would have found pleasure in it that sickens me now.

There was always a part of me that had longed to murder my parents. It was that longing and not their actual deaths that frightened me most. Which was a truth I had never admitted to anyone, knowing how crazy it would sound to sane ears.

I clench my eyes shut, placing my wet hands firmly over my ears and I rock back and forth in the tub with my mother's remains. Until I suddenly feel dry.

When I finally find the courage to open my eyes again, I am alone. The living room is clean. Organised. But recognisably under furnished, the bits and pieces of worthless junk on the shelves and table a ploy to distract from the noticeable emptiness of the room.

The smell of fresh cookies wafts in from the next room and that alone calms me, giving me the opportunity to settle myself there contentedly. Peering around, I recognise the mantelpiece lined with old family photos with my own photo amongst them in a new frame.

When I had first seen my picture there, an overwhelming sense of peace had struck me. I remember how I had reached up and touched my cheek, my fingers coming back wet with tears and I had stared at them, bewildered. Because I had never before cried tears of joy like they did in all those perfect, cookie cutter movies. The emotion was foreign to me and I never believed this type of crying to exist outside of fiction. I had been happy to learn it was in fact a real thing.

At the memory I find myself crying again and I laugh at the peculiarity of it all repeating itself like this.

"Selina, why are you crying?" she asks me, coming into the room carrying a plate of cookies in her frail hands. She lingers in the doorway, watching me with concern.

"I'm just so happy," I laugh breathily, smiling at her affectionately.

She smiles back at me and moves to sit down, placing one hand on her sore hip as she lowers herself into her chair.

"Glad to hear it, dear. I worry about you being alone out there. I worry that maybe you're unhappy," she says, offering me the plate of cookies. I take two, knowing she wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I haven't been unhappy since I met you," I reassure her.

But I didn't say this the first time she expressed her concerns. Instead I had shrugged her off, turning her affections away from me out of habit. I thought there was weakness in admitting defeat, and at the time I _had_ felt defeated. The night before I had just barely escaped arrest for another heist, running across rooftops with a sackful of stolen goods when Batman had obstructed my path. Desperately he had pleaded for me to stop. He had told me how he couldn't keep making exceptions for me. I had been causing a huge moral dilemma within him, challenging all he had stood for, and he couldn't keep fighting it anymore.

I had to stop or he would have to take me in. It was a threat he had presented often but each time prior it had seemed hollow somehow; uncommitted. But that night there was true warning in his words and I had felt struck by this change. As if he had betrayed me by choosing the law over our unofficial relationship.

"Take me in then. I dare you," I had hissed, intensity burning in my eyes.

His hand hovered briefly over his utility belt, suggesting hesitation, before he finally retrieved a pair of handcuffs.

"Don't make me do this," he'd pleaded as he drew nearer.

"I. Dare. You," I'd repeated and then as he reached for my wrist, I lashed out and scratched across his lips and chin before running to the next rooftop and onwards. I knew I could outrun him but I realise now that, had I looked back, I probably would have seen him standing still where I had left him.

"Selina?" she asks uncertainly. I hadn't said anything for a while.

I come back down to earth and take a bite of my cookie but it turns to ash in my mouth. I start to choke on it but it's coating my entire mouth and throat and I look to her desperately for help. But she can't help me now. She has turned into a beaten and bloody pulp, her body barely resembling a body at all anymore and I begin to cry. Great big ugly sobs. History is repeating itself right before my very eyes and there is nothing that I can do to stop it. I can only watch and feel that same horrid agony infiltrate every crevice of my being.

She is dead in front of me all over again, Matthew Carter standing over her remains proudly, his fists dripping with her blood. He is called The Barbarian for a reason. He finds great pleasure in brutal killings, doing all his dirty work himself rather than hiring someone to do it for him. He likes the moment he can see the life leaving someone's eyes, the way his victim would always fight hopelessly against him and most of all: he liked it to be bloody. It gave him a rush like nothing else.

The room turns hazy, billowing out into a pale fog that swirls slowly around me and the floor starts to shift under my feet, becoming more solid like stone. It's an uncomfortable sensation and I slide down to the ground, touching the floorboards desperately with my hands but it feels more firm and cold than wood. It's now a road beneath me.

My eyes dart towards Matthew but he has morphed into someone else. I can barely make him out anymore, his features an undiscernible blur, but I can see that his head has become shiny and red. Squinting, the vision of him grows clearer and I realize he is wearing a red helmet that conceals his face in its entirety.

I flinch away instinctively as he stands over me- tall and intimidating.

"You're not Bruce," he tilts his head to the side a little, tucking two handguns back into their holsters.

Weakly I try to crawl away from him but my back hits something warm and soft. When I withdraw my hands, they come back bloody.

"Tell the big man that Red Hood saved your ass. You tell him that he owes me," he says sternly, turning his back on me. Then he stops abruptly. "If you know what's good for you, you'll never wear that cape and cowl ever again."

I shake my head to force away the distortion and when I finally regain my focus, Red Hood is gone.

"Batman!" Robin shouts, genuine concern evident in his voice as he runs up behind me. Once he is at my back he quietly asks if I'm okay. I don't respond. I'm not sure whether I am okay or not. I can't even tell whether I am still physically in one piece.

"They've been shot," Robin breathes, examining two dead bodies. It's their blood that I found on my hands. "Who did this?"

"Scarecrow?" my voice is hoarse, the voice changer most likely having broken during my hallucinations.

"No, he's unconscious right in front you," Robin murmurs, staring at me worriedly, "he must have given you a dose of his toxin. What did you see?"

I wave him off weakly and unsteadily stand upright, wiping the blood from my hands off onto my cape. My footsteps are unbalanced, the world still spinning around me and I fall down, crawling the rest of the way to Scarecrow to inspect him. First I place two fingers on his neck and his skin is unusually hot, and rough like sandpaper. It feels like each beat of his pulse climbs up my fingers, entering my bloodstream and my body thrums with the pace of his heart. Sickened, I retract my hand and clutch it to my chest, struggling to steady my breathing.

I am not okay.

"Alfred, send the car to our location," I distantly hear Robin's voice but it keeps fading out, moving farther away from me. "No, she's in bad shape. I can't get her to respond… honestly I don't think she can even hear me anymore."

I try to speak to him but it feels like my tongue has swollen to a size that's too big to fit properly in my mouth. My throat is too dry to force out the words. They must still be coated in ash from the cookie. It was that god damned cookie that did this to me. I try to tell Damian this but no sound passes my cracked lips.

Then everything turns dark, starting at the corners but then caving in until the world disappears. As this happens, I am convinced that I am dying.

With that thought, I find all consuming peace.


	12. Chapter 12

There is a tight strain on my wrists when I feel myself coming back into consciousness, and for a brief moment I believe I have become trapped by the same monstrous illness that killed my mother. I open my eyes to the ceiling, but, despite being held captive there, I still cannot find what my mother used to see. Frustrated and distressed, I clench my eyes shut again and try to pull my wrists away from the bed but the hold on me won't loosen no matter how much I struggle. It's as if I'm stuck in some kind of in-between; not quite dead but not alive either.

"We had to tie you down," a voice says sadly, the sound slightly muffled, but I can still recognise the concern dripping from their words. "It was the only way to keep you from harming yourself."

I realise then that the tightness on my wrists is real. Actual, physical straps around them to secure me to the bed rather than depression and suicide keeping me prisoner. I don't know whether I should be relieved or not. Either way, I decide to stop fighting against them, at least until I can tell the difference between what is real and what is fake.

"The antidote you took for Scarecrow's toxin is still taking effect," the voice is back again, "with time you'll start to feel like yourself again."

"I didn't take…" I try to speak but my throat is still dry.

"The antidote from your utility belt. You don't remember taking it?"

"I didn't know it was there," I shake my head weakly.

"You must have," Robin speaks up, "it was already in your system by the time I found you. Only, you administered it in the late stages of your hallucinations. Which is why you haven't fully recovered yet."

I shake my head again, frustrated. They aren't listening to me. "I didn't… Red H-"

I cut myself off when there is a cold hand suddenly pressing against my clammy forehead and I open my eyes, meeting Alfred's intense gaze. I see the same concern he usually reserves for those he considers family, and I lose myself in it.

At once, the point I was trying to make fades away, losing its urgency.

Alfred gently unfastens the straps from my wrists and eases me up into a sitting position, one of his hands supporting my back and the other holding my hand. Damian watches on, hesitant, and he clasps his mask in his hands. There are long, red scratches on his cheek. If it weren't for the way he was looking at me, I would assume he had received them during the fight at the house. But he looks as if he has distanced himself from me. As if he is just waiting for the moment I lose control, and I just know that _I_ had hurt him. It terrifies me that I can't remember how, when or why I did it. The harder I think about it, the hazier the memory becomes until eventually I am utterly blank.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, urging him with my eyes to forgive me.

He offers the most forced of small smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "You were already forgiven."

"Have you ever-?" I begin but he stops me. He already understands what I am asking.

"Never. I can't imagine what the experience must be like," he says. "Bruce never talks about it. Never tells me what the toxin makes him see. Neither does Grayson… I suppose it isn't something one wishes to remember."

"Well, it isn't a walk in the park, I can tell you that much," I mutter and hold my head in my hands. It does nothing to ease the throbbing inside my skull.

I move to my feet and experience an uncomfortable wave of vertigo that temporarily leaves me breathless. I can't decide whether the world is truly spinning or if it's just all in my head. It's near impossible to find any distinction between the two and so I reach for what I know for sure to be real and stable. I clutch onto Alfred's shoulder, burying my face into the crook of his neck, desperate for this nightmare to pass, but then even he starts to feel different and wrong. The fabric of his coat turns rough and itchy under my hands, like the texture of worn burlap, and his soft breathing grows in intensity, shifting into a raging wind in my ears.

My skin begins to crawl, like bugs are skittering below the surface again and I subconsciously try to rub and itch them away. But nothing looks any different. And Alfred is still looking at me with that same unconditional care in his eyes. I hang onto that look for dear life until everything fades back into normality.

Or at least what passes for normal.

"I need some time," I tell them both uneasily and leave for the cave.

Neither of them follow me and so I freely touch everything I pass, my hand grazing the walls and bookshelves and the handrail down the staircase. Relief finds me when each and every part of my surroundings remain as real as I remember them. There is no ash or disintegrating wood, and most importantly, as I inhale deeply, the stench of alcohol is absent from the air. The churning in my stomach finally begins to settle and by the time I seat myself in the cave, my heartrate is steady and my breathing is even. As long as I can tie myself to something real, I'll be okay.

I turn on the bat computer and search the database for a profile on Red Hood. From what I can remember, whoever this mysterious figure was, he had history with Bruce, and not the good kind. They personally knew each other though it is hard to tell how long ago their friendship, or whatever it was, went sour. When it comes to Batman, there tends to be more enemies than allies which creates many possible candidates for my saviour's identity. However, very few, if any, know that Bruce and Batman are one and the same. Which sparks my curiosity (how could it not?).

Upon searching his name, Red Hood's profile appears to be protected by a level one password which was most likely put in place once I became a resident of Wayne Manor. Clearly, Bruce didn't want me to know about this fascinating character. Which implies that Red Hood and I were never intended to meet. Bruce was depending on that. Unfortunately for him, Red Hood didn't receive the memo about me being off limits. Though something tells me that he follows a ' _rules are made to be broken'_ ideology. Or at least he doesn't colour inside the lines the way Bruce probably thinks he should.

Honestly, I kind of like the guy. Even if our first meeting isn't what you'd call conventional. To put it simply: he intimidates me as much as he intrigues me.

"Oh Bruce, Red Hood is personal to you, isn't he?" I mutter to myself, eyeing the password protection challengingly. "Good thing I know you personally then."

I type in the word _Martha_ and gain access to the protected profile with an amused smirk, knowing he would have anticipated I'd overthink it. Always underestimating me and thinking me simple and unassuming. He seems to forget how much he _has_ revealed to me, even accidentally, because he keeps so much to himself.

The first thing I see is a small collection of photos, consisting of three somehow very different images of the same man. The first is of the red hooded figure I met hours earlier, the helmet creating a disconcerting, faceless force of apathy. He sees you but you don't see him, leaving you unsure as to where to look; afraid of unknowingly meeting his vindictive glare.

The next photo is of a young man who can't be older than twenty-three. I hadn't expected him to be so young. But more than that, I hadn't expected him to look so…tormented. His face had been battered to some extent, blood crusted in and around his nostrils, his left eye blackened and slightly swollen as if he'd only just been badly punched. He adorns the most sinister of smiles, the strain from the effort pulling (probably painfully) at the split in his bottom lip, causing it to bleed again. The bad lighting makes his cheeks look sallow and sharpens his jawline, making his eyes look like cavernous pits that you could fall into. You could become lost in them, trapped eternally inside his pain.

' _What had he done to deserve the beating'_ , I can't help but wonder. Because the last photo almost looks like a different person altogether, and side by side, the comparison is daunting. It must have been taken years before the other two. His face is softer, rounder, and his shoulders aren't as broad. Here he must be around the age of sixteen, his eyes aglow and eager at his newfound 'adulthood' despite not yet even being able to legally drink. His smile here is gentle, free from contempt and pessimism, and all the bruises and cuts are absent from his skin. Here he is gratefully unharmed, looking at the camera as if taken by surprise, not knowing his picture was being taken until the last moment. His dark hair is tussled, his chin showing the early signs of facial hair that he hadn't yet needed to shave.

He looks carefree. He looks happy. Which is, as I've discovered, no easy feat in this life. So maybe it isn't so hard to imagine how he came to be so broken after all.

"Only four months after I took that photo, he was left to die, beaten, alone and in pain, in a warehouse by the Joker."

I jump when the words echo in the cave. Spinning around, I see the Red Hood approaching me, carrying what appears to be a cup of coffee. As my heart skips a beat, I shake my head, only to find that it's just Alfred coming to check on me.

My mind hasn't retrieved all its marbles just yet.

"After the warehouse was engulfed in flames by Joker's explosives, Bruce presumed him to be dead. Only… Jason instead suffered a fate much worse than death." He continues, his words forlorn as he sets the mug down in front of me.

"You startled me," I breathe, trying to steady the pace of my racing heart, "I didn't hear you come in."

"No, you wouldn't have. You were too focused on reading Jason's profile which, as I recall, was meant to be kept safe from prying eyes." He gives me a sidelong look but doesn't seem incensed by my intrusion on Bruce's privacy. At the very least, he is not at all surprised. "May I ask what sparked your curiosity? Or were you simply studying?"

"Alfred, I met him. Red Hood saved my life last night from Scarecrow and his thugs," I tell him, picking up the hot mug as I try, again, to tie myself to something familiar and real. "I think he administered the antidote to Scarecrow's toxin for me. If he hadn't…"

I let the sentence fade into silence, not quite knowing the specifics of how it would have ended but the general idea giving me the chills. It's hard to accept that what happened, happened, and what's more is that I actually got off easy. Had Jason not come to my aid, I might not be sitting here right now. Or at least, not sitting here mostly unharmed.

"Master Todd… Jason… he," Alfred frowns, searching for the right words. "He was troubled," he decides finally.

"I'm sure this life did little to change that," I mutter sourly.

"Bruce took Jason in because he believed that all the boy's rage would drive him to the criminal element. He was already a thief when they crossed paths, and putting him in a home for orphan boys proved to be no help at all. He remained aggressive towards others, uncooperative with his teachers, and frankly, he was unbearably rude. The mouth that boy had on him…cursing left and right."

"Sounds like you two didn't get along," I point out. Through Alfred's recollection, tears had begun to well up in his eyes, his voice occasionally catching in his throat. The context of his words and his evident mourning fail to correlate.

"We didn't at first… maybe ever, really. But he was just a kid. And when the going was good, it _was_ good. He was probably the most determined of all the Robins, the most driven and eager-."

"More so than boy scout Grayson? I find that hard to believe," I laugh. Alfred doesn't even crack a smile.

"His vengeful determination started to cross dangerous lines," he says, wringing his hands, "and we had to question the safety of having him at Batman's side."

"He was at risk of getting killed?"

"No. He was at risk of killing others," he sighs and hangs his head low, ashamed. "I tried to warn Master Bruce, tried to suggest he force Jason to stay in the cave. But he was too attached to the boy, too stubborn to believe he couldn't rein Jason in. Endlessly trying to give the boy a purpose."

"Doesn't sound to me like Jason could be controlled, no matter how hard you tried."

"You're probably right," he allows, "but we should have tried harder all the same. Maybe then his unruliness wouldn't have led to his capture and torture by the Joker."

I inspect the three photographs again, weaving them into the narrative to witness the journey from his beginning, and imagining his eventual end. Looking into those tortured eyes, I am reminded again of the Joker's poetic insanity. And I wonder what Joker's torment instilled in Jason, and how this might compare to the rest of the world's sanity.

Then I ponder who, when faced with each side, I would best understand.

"When Jason eventually emerged as the Red Hood, my fears had been realised," the catch in Alfred's throat is gone, replaced by a quiet, controlled anger. "He came back more the monster I feared and knew him to be than he was when he was taken."

I gesture to the bloody and torn Robin suit in its display cabinet, knowing that Bruce's dead Robin was Jason Todd. With all this distressing history out in the open, the suit stands as a disturbing reminder. Like a dark, bitter trophy to symbolise either the dead or the corrupt.

"Why does he keep that?" I have to ask, "doesn't it seem… wrong?"

"I suggested to Master Bruce that we take it down, but he wouldn't hear of it." Alfred stares at the suit in utter defeat. "He said that Jason's return, even as a killer, doesn't change anything at all. He thinks of Jason as his greatest failure and I suppose he always wants to be reminded of that. Whether it's so he won't repeat his mistakes or just to torment himself, I'm not sure."

"Uh, sorry to interrupt," Robin says meekly and we both turn around, startled. He stands there, hands clasped in front of him and his eyes trained to the images of Jason on the screen. His expression doesn't betray whatever it is he is thinking, and so I can't tell whether the two of them had ever met, or how much he knows about his estranged predecessor.

"What is it, Damian?" I ask gently, moving to my feet. The scratches on his cheek still stare me down, aggressively red and menacing. Again I feel a sharp pang of guilt.

"We're being summoned to Arkham Asylum to interrogate Scarecrow."

"By the commissioner?"

"Well… no. By Scarecrow himself."


	13. Chapter 13

Even shackled to his chair by his wrists, ankles, and waist, Scarecrow is frightening to behold. His gaze remains fixed somehow on both Robin and myself as we enter the room, and I can't help but squirm uncomfortably, trying and failing to avoid making eye contact. I've never before seen a shade of green quite like that of his eyes, which makes me think that the colour has shaped itself from years of exposure to all those chemicals. It looks unnatural, manufactured, almost ill seeming as if his body has entirely corrupted itself, warping into something deformed and dying. The pale colour of his coarse skin only magnifies this sickly appearance, as if he were already a corpse. But here he sits, breathing, undeniably alive. I can't help but find that unfortunate.

After what he made me see, what I was forced to relive, it's hard not to wish him dead.

"Batman. Robin. How kind of you to join me," he says, attempting to sit upright but the restraints keep him slumped in place, the chains too heavy for his thin bones to move. He can't so much as stretch. I find myself hoping the cuffs are too tight on his spindly wrists and ankles.

"This isn't a friendly visit, Scarecrow. This is an interrogation, make no mistake," Robin says firmly.

Scarecrow tilts his head to the side, not unlike the way Red Hood did the night before as he stood over my weakened, deranged form. He seems to contemplate the both of us with a natural curiosity. But the more he stares, the more I sense that he may be able to see straight through me. As if his toxin had made a gateway for him to see straight into my head, a window to my very soul, where he could sift through all my fears and worst memories and could make me a witness to them over and over again. If that were true, then he could very well know me even better than I know myself. Which would mean his stare is less that of curiosity and more that of unkind familiarity.

"Don't you think it isn't quite an interrogation when you were invited?" he asks smoothly, "I'd much rather interrogate you."

"Well that's a fascinating idea, but that isn't how this is going to go," Robin says.

Scarecrow ignores him, instead turning his attention entirely on me. "Something is different. You've changed… if you are _you_."

Robin glances at me briefly, but his expression fails to portray any thoughts or emotions. It's just a flat, empty look, but I still understand that he wants me to keep it together.

"Unfortunately _you_ are still _you_ ," I say gruffly, "just the same whack job you've always been, Crane."

"You _are_ different," he concludes, amused, his eyes becoming alight with intrigue. "I suspected it when I filled the air with my toxin. It wasn't my greatest work. In fact, I near expected it not to work. Certainly not as effectively as it did on you."

"And why's that?"

"I used an old formula, one which Batman very quickly learned how to overcome," he explains, "which raises the question: how did it send you on a downward spiral, trapping you in your own worst fears?"

"Why use an old formula?"

"Answer my question first," he demands, rattling his cuffs a little as he shifts slightly in his chair.

I grab the material of his coat, tugging him forward until his upper body slams hard against the side of the table, and the shackles ring sharply as he is pulled against them. Then I thrust him back in his seat, disgusted, but he remains unmoved. Unstartled. Unsurprised. The threatening 'bad cop' tactic appears to have little effect on him, either from the years of Batman breaking his bones, or the overexposure to his toxins has made him immune to fear.

"We're not here to answer your questions, Scarecrow," I growl, frustrated, "you haven't earned the right to ask anything of us."

"Why use an old formula?" Robin demands, "don't make me ask again."

Scarecrow looks around the room as if he has grown bored of the conversation. The enclosed space of exposed brick and the dark pane of a one way mirror instils a claustrophobia within me that it can't instil within him. Nothing can be taken from him to force him into some kind of repentance, not even his own freedom.

Robin grips and twists Scarecrow's wrist and a flash of pain briefly crosses his features, his teeth baring and his eyes widening, but that's where it ends. Physically, it hurts him for only a moment, but that's the only response he offers. It's probably the only one he can give.

"My toxins are being stolen from me," he hisses finally, "my latest formula is intricate and it requires a perfect balance of components. It takes me a long time to perfect… and then I find it has been taken from me!"

"How does this relate at all to the two Arkham guards you murdered?"

"Who says I killed them?" he taunts.

"Don't play coy with us, Crane," Robin warns, "there is enough evidence against you as it is. A confession will make little difference."

He cracks an unsettling grin, the scarred skin of his face pulling tightly at the corners of his mouth and he points a menacing finger at me. "Do you know why people feel fear?"

"I don't think it matters to you what I do or do not know," I say. It takes all my resolve not to roll my eyes. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"People feel fear as an instinct to survive. They've evolved to perceive what threatens that survival, which is why they fear death itself. Doesn't it seem both an impractical and a beautiful design of humanity? Fearing the inevitable, cowering in the face of the ever looming end? The only purpose of living is to die, and everything that happens in between is just background noise. Doesn't that seem strange? The stunning torment of fearing your very existence? It's fascinating."

"Your fascinations bore me, Crane," I say, knowing it will work to infuriate him, "tell me about those guards."

"Fear, despite all its glorious beauty, has great flaws in humanity's behaviour," he continues stubbornly, "people have developed phobias, irrational fears to unthreatening aspects of life. They become afraid of failing in love or work, afraid they aren't rich enough or thin enough or, god forbid, not popular enough."

He rolls his shoulders back stiffly and works the tension out of his neck, watching us with both enthrallment and complete revulsion. Despite studying fear, chemically, physically and emotionally, he still doesn't seem to understand it the same way most people do. His inability to experience it for himself for all these years has left him estranged from his own subject, blurring the connections between causes and their effects. The brief jolt of vertigo and fear people feel as they miss a step in the dark, for example, has been forgotten, and that, I am sure, has left him unnerved. But in the end, it has only made him more dedicated to his work, and more in need of human guinea pigs to test his theories on.

What I experienced, however, was not a test. It was an attack. Yet, he found himself a reaction worthy of observation as I fell to my knees, probably screaming aloud as I relived my nightmares. By stopping to study me, he had foolishly made himself vulnerable and was knocked out by the Red Hood. And yet he seems unfazed by this reality, instead just wishing he had had more time to witness my descent into madness.

We don't give him the benefit of a response and he lets out an irate sigh, finally lowering his finger so he is no longer pointing at me.

"There's a lot of fear in manipulation and blackmail," he says finally, "when you know what people are afraid to lose. Whether it be money or family, or their social status, it isn't hard to gain control over them. Those two guards were ingenuous, gutless specimens and it didn't take much to work them under my thumb."

"They helped you escape, so why kill them?"

"He thinks they stole the toxins from him," Robin snickers humourlessly, "he killed them, convinced these so called 'gutless' men had the means and the motivation to steal from him."

"A fair assumption," Scarecrow argues.

"We found your toxin in only one of the victims. Why? How is that possible?"

Scarecrow smiles again, exhilarated, and he leans back in his seat with ease. "Now he… he made for a very remarkable subject. So many repressed fears just itching for release. So many pent up anxieties just eating away at him. I only needed to talk to him."

"That's it? You just… talked to him?"

"Yes, we spoke at length of all the terror he suppressed," he replies easily, "until he was eager to eat that bullet. Until he was begging for death."

I grind my teeth together as I clench my jaw, subconsciously clamping my hands into tight fists. Scarecrow's disturbing grin impossibly widens, his crusted skin actually beginning to crack and bleed at the creases. It's unlike anything I've ever seen before, unusually different from the ragged texture of normal burn scars where the skin is taut and thick. Instead it's as if layers of his skin have burned away entirely, leaving behind this dry, coarse crust in its wake. It barely works to sustain his insides as the fresh blood oozes from the seams of the patchwork skin he had badly stitched together over and over again. He doesn't even bleed the right way, the colour of it more a murky grey than a dark red and thicker like drying clumps of paint.

"You begged for death too, you know," he says, matter-of-factly, "pleaded aloud to me. To God. To the world."

I grab at Scarecrow's cloak again, this time dragging him onto the table, his body surprisingly light like a ragdoll, making the chains become rigid. The cuffs pull on his wrists and ankles, grey blood dripping from where it has broken his skin and digs into his flesh. The chain around his midsection compresses on his stomach until I pull it roughly further up his body, forcing it into position over his chest. He only begins to struggle as the chain, crushing his chest, keeps his lungs from expanding.

Robin makes a purposeful step forward, his eyes darting between Crane and me, unsure as to whether he ought to intervene. There's definitely mixed emotions rattling around that head of his as he hovers only just in my line of sight.

Scarecrow opens his mouth, faint gasps escaping as he fights for air. By now his heart must be racing, the blood pounding in his ears, his lungs tightening in his chest as he suffocates. I pull the chain tighter still and I hear one of his ribs crack under the pressure, but by this point the lack of oxygen has left him feeling little else than the need to breathe. He doesn't even flinch at the sound of the bone breaking.

"Batman-" Robin warns finally, but I don't release the prisoner. Not yet.

"Scared yet, you bastard?" I spit aggressively, baring my teeth like some kind of wild animal.

Two guards hesitate in the doorway as they reach for the Tasers in their belts and, at that, Robin physically intervenes, his small hand managing to painfully grasp my fist and he twists it back until I have no choice but to let the chain go. As the compression on his chest loosens, Scarecrow splutters for air, unswallowed spit spewing from his mouth. He weakly rolls from the table, landing in a heap on the floor, and he desperately claws his way back into his chair so the cuffs feel slack on his limbs, the metal stained with his blood.

There's an emptiness in his expression as he stares at me, exploring my eyes in search of something mysterious, an answer to all his questions.

But all that's there is my misdirected rage.

He isn't the one I want dead, and yet, I think I may have just made an attempt on his life.

Even I am unsure as to what my limitations are or exactly how far it was that I was intending to go. All I know is that, in the past, I've had little success in controlling myself. I've made a habit of biting off more than I can chew, endlessly dealing with the repercussions and struggling with all the excess I have taken on. My downfall always came in taking more than I needed, and so, were someone to ask, I wouldn't be able to say for sure that I would have stopped in time.

Crane chokes out a forceful laugh. Maybe he had found an answer in my eyes after all.

The two guards grudgingly tend to his wounds, one standing watch as the other removes the cuffs from his wrists. "Your empty threats do little to frighten me, Batman," he jeers hatefully.

"Like you said, Crane, I've changed," I hiss and Robin edges himself between the two of us. "This time it wasn't so empty."

Robin pushes my arm slightly, urging me to move to the door. As I turn away, the deranged doctor slumps in his chair, the answers he had been elated to find evaporating into thin air as he watches me with a mystified, insatiable curiosity once more.


	14. Chapter 14

I watch as Sexy speeds around the corner out of sight, the tires squealing against the asphalt and I chuckle lightly. _He really isn't that good a driver_ , I think plainly, but I'd still never keep him from doing it. He seems to find reassurance in having permission to drive, more so without my supervision from the passenger seat. How could I possibly deny him that?

I'd insisted he go on without me and he'd grudgingly obliged, having first received my word that I wouldn't go back in for Scarecrow. And I'd meant it when I said, _"Scarecrow isn't my problem."_ I'd found some avengement in leaving him behind bars, his rib broken, and wrists and ankles bandaged. Maybe I couldn't leave him fearful, but I could leave him with physical scars as a reminder to him of what I am capable of. More importantly: what I am more than willing to do.

With Robin gone, I freely roam the city on my own, grappling between buildings the way I used to when I didn't answer to anybody but myself and I wasn't expected to be so… clean. I'm sure I'll find myself being lectured by Dick over the monitor back at the cave when I eventually return. And Alfred will hover by me unnecessarily. Watching me with a fiery, silent judgement that hurts me more than Nightwing's sharp words.

Bruce will more than likely be informed of what I have done and there isn't a doubt in my mind that his hypocrisy will find its way to me without even hearing him utter a single word. If his history is anything to go by, his temper is far worse than mine and his hits land hard like a crashing boulder, making my violence tame in comparison. So what gives him the right to judge me so completely? If anything, I am just living up to what his symbol truly represents rather than what he thinks it does.

As I swing towards the next rooftop, the rope suddenly falls slack and then I am falling. The wind whips harshly against my face as I pummel downwards and I clumsily try to rework the grapple, disposing of the cut wire and refitting it. I'd been shown how to do this quickly but in this exact moment all the training I had gone through has disappeared, leaving me with nothing but my own instincts. I'd never had this problem before as I'd avoided such spacious gaps between buildings since my whip could only reach so far. But I'd never had the cape before either, and so I try to get the air beneath it to slow myself down and soften my fall. Just as this begins to work, something solid slams into my side and the same something tightens around my waist, digging into me. Then I am not falling anymore. I'm being carried. Until we land together on a low rooftop.

"Just wanted to see what you would do," he says as he drops me down at his feet.

I scurry to my feet and take two cautious steps back, eyeing his red helmet uneasily. "And?" I ask tersely.

"And now I know for sure that you aren't Grayson either," he says, "I suspected you weren't. As much as I dislike the guy, I'll admit he isn't so easily thwarted by someone as pathetic as Scarecrow."

"How nice of you to say," I mutter sourly and he chortles, though I don't think he found it all that funny. "What do you want, Jason?"

He had been slowly circling me, inching around with precise steps to keep me cornered, but as I call him by his real name, he falters. He comes to a standstill to my right and I warily turn to face him.

He reaches up and pulls the helmet from his head, revealing the same face I had seen in the photograph, but this time there's no evidence of the bruises and cuts ever having been there. "Bruce told you all about me, huh?"

I shake my head, "No, Alfred did."

The grin he had been sporting disappears in an instant, his eyes flashing with a sudden hatred and he clenches his jaw. "Pennyworth, huh? So the old man still speaks for that coward?"

I shrug my shoulders slightly and step further away from him but he just inches closer with a warning shake of his head. "You aren't going anywhere. Not yet."

"Is that a threat?" I question, reaching towards my utility belt for a batarang though I don't think it will do much to help me now. He knows what to expect from me.

He shrugs a backpack from his shoulders and unzips it, keeping his eyes trained on me at all times to make sure I make no attempts to escape. Not that he needs to. My curiosity quickly gets the better of me and I wait to see what he has tucked away in that bag. But even as he tosses something at my feet, my curiosity isn't sated, as I can't tell what exactly it is. Hesitantly, I bend down and pick it up between two fingers. It's an old, scrunched up duffel bag. But not just any duffel bag. It's the same one the burglar from the jewellers used. The one full of stolen jewels that I had thrust into his hand and allowed him to escape with. This time, however, the bag is empty and stained largely in blood.

"I suspected you long before your run in with Scarecrow," Jason says, "Grayson would never assist a criminal. But you would, wouldn't you, Selina?"

I drop the bag and it lands with a muffled thump on the ground; but it is too late, my hands already feel dirty.

"I left the jewellery untouched in his apartment. I'm sure they'll find their way back to where they belong," he tells me, "so no need to worry about that."

"The guy was poor. He was just trying to survive-" I start but he holds up a hand, stopping me.

"He gave you the whole spiel about being jobless and evicted from his home, right?" He asks and I hesitantly nod. "Bet he didn't tell you about the nice big stash of child pornography he has on his computer, huh? Didn't tell you how he's on a sex offender registry? Did none of this come up? You didn't think to ask how or why he got himself into a tough spot?"

I feel a quick pang of regret and the literal need to be sick but nothing comes up and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. No, I hadn't thought to ask. I hadn't even thought to identify the guy to see if his story added up.

"You saw he was poor, and that's where your attention to detail ended," Jason says, "your empathy blinded you."

"You were poor once too. And a thief," I point out pathetically. He reaches out and pulls the cowl from my head and I make no attempt to stop him. It feels foolish to speak from inside the shell of someone else anyhow.

"Yes. I was. You can't even imagine how hard Bruce worked to beat that out of me. Sometimes even literally." There's definitely a dark bitterness to his tone of voice.

"Actually, I can imagine it quite clearly," I scowl.

Thinking back on the times I had been intimate (to put it lightly) with Batman, I'd assumed his anger had been just as misdirected as my own. But perhaps it wasn't. What if the reality is that he really was just that infuriated with me and my lifestyle, and he resented himself for being drawn to me anyway? Which would explain why exactly the dynamic changed when he revealed his true identity to me. Behind the mask he couldn't allow himself to see beyond what exactly was in front of him, and he could without it. I caused the barrier between Batman and Bruce to blur together, which meant that his rough handling of me was as real and as intended as I'd purposely chosen to ignore. Our relationship (if you could even call it that) was a one way street on which I travelled alone. And it would always remain that way because I am who I am, and that is someone who he'll never fully allow himself to be with.

"Does he know you helped a criminal? Whilst wearing his uniform no less," Jason questions with a pointed look.

"If he did, do you think I'd be standing here? Wearing his uniform no less?"

"Good point," he allows. He pushes a strand of my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. A shiver runs up my spine. There's no real kindness behind his gesture. His hand, so close to my throat, is intended as a threat.

"Did you kill him?" I whisper, looking down at the bloodstained duffel bag.

"Would it make you feel better if I said no?"

"Not really."

"Well, no need to sugar coat it then," he muses, "I did. And I made sure it hurt. How do you imagine he felt, dying without the dignity of still having all his bits and pieces in tact?"

"That's just sick," I hiss, disgusted.

"Let the punishment fit the crime," he declares sternly, "the guy was a repulsive pervert who would never stop feeding his disgusting pleasures."

I can't help but think he has a point. The children of Gotham are just that little bit safer now that he no longer looms over them as a threat. There's something so pure in that, something so undeniably good in what Jason has done that I find myself feeling out of place. I am alienated from the world in a way I never have been before, and I think I can blame it all on the uniform that I don't truly fit into.

"I've been keeping an eye on your movements," he says, "you and your little companion. And to think I had been convinced that Bruce couldn't find anyone worse than that Drake boy. I've been proven wrong."

"He's a good kid," I defend Damian quickly, curling my lip up into a snarl.

"He'll turn up dead someday, mark my words. He isn't cut out for this."

"What? And you were? Well look how that turned out for you," I hiss.

I expect him to strike me across the face but instead he just laughs and starts to dig around in his backpack again. Finally I decide that I've had enough and I slowly back away from him, towards the edge of the rooftop. I've had practice in outrunning my adversaries so I hope I won't fail myself now.

"You'll want to stick around for this," he calls out without looking up. Then he pulls a gas mask from his bag and holds it out towards me.

"What's that for?"

"Penguins umbrellas, Dent's coin, Harley's wooden mallet, and even Scarecrow's toxin, I know where they are." Can't say he doesn't have me intrigued. I turn away from the edge and walk back towards him, accepting the gas mask as he thrusts it into my hands. "They're all being auctioned off at the Mirror House tomorrow night by a man that calls himself The Dealer. Wormy looking guy, kinda' resembles a walking corpse, but with a fancy tuxedo."

"Sounds like a classy guy," I joke.

"He has the outfit and the money and the social status for it," Jason zips up his bag and slings it onto his back, "but he also has a nasty habit of killing his uninvited guests. Make sure you show up wearing that gas mask. And something…'pretty'. If he even gets a whiff of an intruder he will set off a lethal gas."

"I'm assuming these are different from your regular, run of the mill gas masks?" I inspect my mask but nothing seems unique or unusual about it.

"You're smarter than you look," he grins and hooks a grapple onto the base of the building's water tank. "The Mirror House auction is being held in the apartment of the Kane murders. Do you know where that is?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out. But why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I see potential in you," he says calmly, pulling his red helmet back on. "I'm about to clean up Gotham the way Bruce never could, and it's about time you either get your head in the game or get out."

With that he grabs onto the wire from his grappling hook and propels himself down the side of the building. I could easily loosen the hook and leave him to fall. From this height, the fall may not kill him, but it would certainly break many of his bones. He knows how easy it would be but he must also know that I don't have the guts. Or the motivation. He's confident that I'll find him worthy of my time, and, god dammit, he isn't wrong.

After all these months of investigating the stolen possessions, he comes forward with not just a lead, but the solution. I can't just allow that kind of Intel to go to waste. And he's more charismatic and charming than I had anticipated, which somehow was quite jarring. One wouldn't expect Joker's play toy to come back seemingly unscathed and still with their wits.

I take the grappling gun from my belt and rewire it now that I'm not freefalling towards my death and I briefly wonder how he managed to cut the wire in the first place. Very few blades are capable of cutting these lines and it's an accomplishment in itself that he found or created one. Evidently he has some cunning and useful resources, of which I could have at my disposal if I play this right. Maybe he could be a better ally to me than Bruce.

I make sure the gas mask is firmly attached to my belt before finally leaving the rooftop, grappling my way back towards the cave, stopping frequently to scan my surroundings to ensure I'm not being followed. I don't want to relive the experience of falling like that ever again.

As I had expected, Alfred hovers by my shoulder as soon as I emerge in the cave. He follows me, arms crossed tightly, as I remove my cowl and cape and I set the two aside as I normally would. Neither of us want to speak first and so a tense silence settles obnoxiously between us and there it remains as an irritating presence for the rest of the evening. After only fifteen minutes, in which I still hadn't found the opportunity to remove the remainder of my uniform, the monitor signals an incoming video call. And as I predicted, it's Dick calling to lecture me. He looks better than the last time I saw him, his hair no longer resembling something grotesque that must have clawed its way out of hell, and the bags under his eyes, whilst still there, aren't as dark and puffy as before. Really his whole face just seems more aglow and refreshed. But that just means he is better rested and equally as focused, which leaves little chance of me getting by without a verbal beating.

"Hey there, Selina. Got anything you want to talk about?" his voice is unnaturally high pitched as he works to restrain himself. The infuriation in his eyes though makes him look eerily similar to Bruce for a fleeting moment.

I shrug my shoulders, avoiding making eye contact and I work the gauntlets from my wrists with some difficulty. "Nope."

"You sure? Because a little birdy had something to say about your work this evening."

"Is that so? I could always stop that little bird from singing," I grumble.

"You'd never hurt the boy and we both know it," Dick sighs impatiently, "what the hell got into you, Selina? We've already talked about this, remember? And yet you're just getting worse."

"I wasn't trying to kill him," Does it count as a lie if I am not entirely sure that it _is_ a lie?

"But you made a good go of it all the same," he frowns, shaking his head dismally.

"Can't we do this some other time? Maybe on the first of never? Or does the fifteenth of _eat me_ work better for you?"

"Sometimes you're just plain insufferable, you know that?"

"Geez, Richard. You sure know how to make a girl's heart swoon. How to make them tingle in all the right places," I tease crudely, "really got my motor running with that one. Keep talking. Please don't stop."

Dick looks beyond me, seeking Alfred's help to back him up but the older man stays silent as ever, his expression flat and all his hope seemingly gone. He sees no reason to fight. He must realise that there's no point in trying.

"Look, I consider you an ally. A friend," Dick sighs finally, rubbing his temples again, "which is something I never thought I'd say. But here I am; saying it. And shockingly, I mean it as well. So as my friend, could you please, just this once, stop hiding behind this bullshit persona you have and just talk to me? Like we're adults."

"What exactly do you want me to say, Richard?" I'm exasperated. The uniform suddenly feels uncomfortably warm and too tight and I tug it off irritably. "Do you want me to spurt out some drivel about being overwhelmed? Cry to you about being some poor victim that just doesn't have the emotional capacity to be merciful? That because of my daddy I have an uncontrollable temper, and because of dear old mummy I can't feel compassion? I bet you want it to be that simple, right? Well sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but I'm not all that impressionable. This? It's just me. All me."

"You really have me convinced."

"Perhaps we ought to give Miss Kyle a chance to sleep on it," Alfred suggests timidly, "I think we've all had a stressful evening."

We're both silent for a few moments, waiting to see who will break first and I swear Alfred rolls his eyes like he's dealing with insolent children. Feeling foolish, standing there in my singlet and underwear, the uniform pooled at my feet and my shoulders slumped, I decide to shrink in on myself a little. I've made an embarrassment of myself. Again.

Dick lets out a soft, pitiful sigh and he tussles his hair sheepishly as he agrees. For a moment I think he opens his mouth to apologise, but instead all he says is, "We can talk in the morning."

Then he is gone, the monitor going black as the call ends and Alfred and I are left alone in the dim light of the cave. He rests a tired hand on my shoulder and pats it gently before sinking down into a chair.

"You're far too good to me, Alfred," it's my version of an apology. A pathetic one at that. He has been nothing but kind to me over the last few months, serving me as if that were his job, standing by me as any good friend would, and guiding me the way my father never did.

"I know," he smiles gently and rests his head back, gazing upward at the dark abyss above us.

Suddenly there's movement to my left and three small tubs of ice cream are placed in front of us. I sit up and glance around curiously to see Damian standing there, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his shoulders stiff. I find comfort in seeing that familiar glare in his eyes and the thin line of his tightened lips.

"I've heard you should offer ice cream to people in distress," he offers uncertainly and he holds out two spoons. Alfred doesn't hesitate to take one and pulls up a third chair for him.

I smile softly and take the remaining spoon, digging into the ice cream appreciatively.

"You aren't wrong, Damian. It's a nice gesture."

Evidently he had overheard the entire argument and feels largely responsible and regretful. An emotion with which he hadn't yet had made a proper acquaintance. Often he found that his own reasoning was sound, and lectures saying otherwise would go in one ear and out the other. But seeing somebody else, somebody he considers a friend, on the receiving end of said lectures has left him dumbstruck by a sudden clarity. Sometimes there are indeed consequences to your actions and sometimes they only hurt the ones you care about. Which, in the end, is far worse than any punishment you have to bear on your own.

We eat together in a comfortable silence for a long while and Damian eventually settles in his seat, all the tension in his posture fading until he is smiling quietly to himself. More the young boy that I've come to know. It pains me to think that that innocence is being tainted somehow by his upbringing here under Bruce's ever critical care.

"Does Bruce ever hit you, Damian?" I ask anxiously, uncomfortably stirring the melting remainder of my ice cream with my spoon. His head darts up abruptly and his eyebrows knit together in worry.

"Outside of training? Never," he assures me, "not even when I probably deserve it."

"Well how about Tim? Or Richard?" I turn to Alfred who looks utterly stunned, "did you ever see him hit them?"

"Bruce does not abuse the children that come into his care," Alfred's voice is stern yet apprehensive, "why on earth would you ask us that?"

Frowning, I look between their troubled expressions and I shrug, unwilling to admit the cause of my concern. I wonder if Jason was the exception. Or if he were simply lying. But the bitterness in his voice, and the resentment and pain in his eyes all seemed far too real. And why would he lie? To earn my pity? To manipulate me somehow? It just didn't seem like him. He'd sooner threaten me.

"I don't know… I just thought I should ask," I know my reasoning doesn't convince either of them but neither choose to argue. Instead they resume eating their ice cream, occasionally pausing to look at me, as if checking to make sure I haven't spontaneously combusted or grown three heads.

Feeling exposed, I excuse myself for bed and they tentatively utter quiet goodnights and watch me as I leave the cave, quickening my steps the further I am from them.

"I don't think the ice cream worked," Damian's voice echoes up the stairs.

"It was a nice try," Alfred consoles the young boy and I run up the steps, escaping to my room.


	15. Chapter 15

"Well, don't you look lovely. What's the occasion?" Alfred eyes me warily but I believe the compliment is genuine and I feel my cheeks flush a pale pink, embarrassed.

I've had numerous men try to flatter me this way before but it always felt dirty, like they were merely imitating gentlemen as they actually undressed me with their eyes, picturing themselves devouring the body inside the dress like starved animals. It was rather like being addressed by a wolf disguised as a sheep. But every time I've had to stare into the face of the ravenous beast wearing a suit and tie, I've never batted an eye. Never blushed like a charmed school girl. It is Alfred's honest heart that has me all flustered; surprised to learn that there is such a thing as compliments void of ulterior motive.

"Believe it or not, shocking as it is, I have a date," I lie smoothly, "the poor bastard has been pining over me for months and I thought it ought time I grant him a pity dinner for all his troubles."

"That's sweet of you," he chuckles but doesn't seem entirely convinced, "what time should I be expecting you?"

"That's hard to say, Alfred." I reapply my lipstick in my small compact mirror. "Depends just how pitiful and pathetic he looks sitting across from me. And how small the courses are. Have you seen how finicky these fancy restaurant dishes are nowadays? Barely suffices as a meal. I may just have to fill up on dessert."

"Uh huh," he doesn't appear to be fazed by my ramblings, "and will I be chauffeuring you to the restaurant this evening?"

"Nah, don't fret, Alfred. You know how I like to take advantage of all the beautiful cars Bruce owns."

"I do know, yes. Quite well. Speaking of, Miss Kyle, Master Bruce would like to get his Lamborghini back one of these days. Preferably all in one piece, if that wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Oh, you are funny," I grin and he sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly with his thumb and forefinger.

"Well you know me. I'm quite the comedian," he plays along though it clearly takes a lot of effort. I think he is working hard to be gentle with me. Dick never called the cave this morning, and I think that may have had everything to do with Alfred. "Have a fun evening. But not too much fun. Heaven forbid we lose you to the party life."

"And leave you forever, Alfred? Never." I kiss his cheek and laugh as he slowly retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and half-heartedly wipes the smear of lipstick from his skin. Nevertheless it leaves a faint red mark and I make way for the garage, satisfied. "Goodnight, darling. Don't wait up."

It isn't uncommon (in fact, it is to be expected) for me to lie, but it fails to sit well with me when I lie to Alfred. I don't think I've ever before had a greater friend, and he reminds me so much of _her_. That selfish generosity, the fiery paternal instinct and their all-around kindness. But more than that, they both share the same inescapable fatal flaw: that selfish generosity, the fiery paternal instinct and their all-around kindness. He will find himself, the same way she found herself, losing everything as they unconditionally love and trust all the wrong people. People they should be able to depend on, people who have the capability to protect them but who still fail to nonetheless.

For Alfred, Bruce and I will be the death of him. Just as I was the death of _her_. And yet I can't stop. I've come too far in this journey under the guise of the bat, and the further I dig myself into it, the closer I feel I am to reaching the other side. I just need to go that extra mile now and battle my way through, hopefully with Jason Todd working at my side. If by the end of it more people I care about die in my wake, then I shall die with them.

This time I take the green 1957 Aston Martin. A fairly modest vehicle from Bruce's extensive collection. At least when compared to his usual, more outlandish cars valued in the millions of dollars. It proves both subtle and classy enough to provide a decent character fabrication for this evening's festivities. And that certainly does not involve a date.

Once in the car I check that my backpack containing my gas mask and disguised weaponry is still safely concealed under the back seat before driving towards the location of the infamous Kane murders.

After some digging I found a blurred history of the Mirror House operating in Gotham (and Metropolis on the rare occasion) but the supposed facts are riddled with inconsistencies and refutable rumours sourced by untrustworthy witnesses. And by lowlifes that even claim to have participated in the events but can't provide any believable recollections of the evening's proceedings.

Over the years the auctions have mostly gained a reputation for their sophistication; as supposedly only the wealthy citizens of the city ever receive invites to them. Which has made it an enviable legend, and for those who know, or think they know, about it strive desperately to be considered worthy. As if it crowns you a royal of some kind.

Really, if any of the legends are in fact true, it seems to be a gathering of Gotham's most insufferable, narcissistic and greedy sons of bitches all clambering over one another for unconquerable power, whilst also frantically trying to earn one another's respect. Trying to flaunt their superiority and fabricating some kind of fondness for one another at the same time.

It isn't difficult to blend in with these types of people. Essentially I just have to display the exact characteristics that I hate the most. I need to act as if I am extremely privileged but don't believe myself to be. And if you look the part in an outrageously expensive gown, and gush concededly about a job in which you do little to no work for large sums of money, then they can't (and won't) discover you hiding in their midst.

It's a performance I've staged many times before and as it turns out, I am a natural at playing this role. Which I usually choose not to psychoanalyse too much though Harley has often tried before I would pinch her lips shut to stop her from voicing her findings- she may seem mad, because she undoubtedly is, but her intelligence never really waned. Rather it has just morphed together with her insanity and she buries it deep within a ditzy façade (as it turns out, the Joker doesn't appreciate being outsmarted by his own girlfriend).

Pulling up outside the abandoned apartment complex, I check my hair in the rear view mirror and tidy it some before retrieving the backpack. Ingeniously, I have found a way in which to conceal batarangs, smoke pellets and a Taser into assorted articles of jewellery. It's near impossible to see anything unusual about them unless they are being looked at closely. With more time and with the Batcave's resources, I will one day perfect them. But they should suffice for now if I find that I need them at any time during the evening. Though it would be best to do so with as much discretion as possible.

After adjusting my weaponised accessories, I adorn the gas mask and lock the car behind me before entering the building. The lift has been taped off from whenever it went out of service, probably many years ago, and the dark staircase is lit only with a row of small candles. I follow them, listening to the ever-growing sound of chatter from a few floors above me. My breath is hot inside the mask and my skin perspires around my mouth, and I begin to wonder if it is normal or whether there may be a flaw in mine. Which has me scanning the room for Jason as I stand in the doorway.

Jason is nowhere to be seen, but the small apartment is littered with fancily clad men and women, and I watch them as they continuously drift from one person to the next as if they're just emulating conversations but have no actual interest in what the other person has to say. It's all empty noise to them. Usually something along the lines of:

" _Have you seen the yacht I bought over the weekend? Custom made, you know. Not another one like it."_

" _Oh yes, I do believe I saw it. Very… interesting. But the design is so very last season. It's all about luxury cruise ships these days. Oh yes. They are very in right now. My own one is simply stunning. Helicopter pad on the roof, two heated pools; one at the rear of the ship and the other at the nose, and inside is a fitted bar. Always attended by only the best mixologist, yes."_

" _I heard that fitted bars just became a tacky feature. It just looks so very cheap. No, you need something more elegant than that, and attended by even better than the best. Otherwise it's just plain embarrassing."_

There's nothing substantial about it, each word usually dripping with falsehoods and smarminess to try and outdo one another. It's a race to see who can be the biggest douchebag first. And normally that is a race that never ends. Because if there is in fact a way in which they can surpass each other, it's through their never ending, egotistical stupidity. Somehow they always find something more idiotic to say.

As they float around mindlessly, their faces all disguised by the eerie gas masks as if they're attending some kind of sick Holocaust themed celebration, I subtly observe the other contents of the room. There's a makeshift stage at the opposite end of the apartment with a bidders stand sitting front and centre but right now it remains unattended.

The Dealer, the so called wormy-corpse-in-a-tux, is nowhere yet to be seen.

But just as I go to blend myself in with the wealth-consumed drones, a masked man takes to the stage, wheeling a covered trolley in front of him, which is soon followed by four more. It's hard to tell from this distance, and over the top of people's heads, what each lump under the sheets could be. I have to assume the more sizable one is Harley's wooden mallet, which I am sure she must be missing dearly as she often regards it as one of her babies before using it to smack someone to hell and back. Aside from that, the rest aren't recognisable from shape alone as something like Dent's coin would have to be presented formally somehow.

As the trolleys are brought forward, all gas masks turn to interestedly look and, no lie, I see some people clasp their hands together against their chests as they marvel at whatever treasures they may be presented with. They're all here because they like to feel important, and they wish to flaunt their money to one another as they throw obscene bids forward for items with distinctly murderous histories. The bloodier the kills, the better. Like this is all in good fun and hunting down humans is nothing more than a sport. I watch them, sickened, as they all bunch closer together to be nearer to the stage, eagerly awaiting.

And they don't have to wait long.

Something that better resembles a deformed creature than a man limps onto the stage, the gas mask almost swallowing his small head whole and it's a wonder how he manages to remain balanced as he is so severely disproportioned. His arms are ridiculously long and slender but his shoulders are oddly broad, stretching wider than his skinny neck should really allow. And his torso, starting from the shoulders and right down to his hips, cuts down into an irregular triangular shape, his back frozen in a sharp arch so that he is closer to being entirely bent over than he is to being nearly upright. He uses a cane to keep himself from folding completely forwards, his skeletal fingers gripping onto the handle for dear life and his bow legs visibly shake from the effort it takes to stand. He'd actually be standing well over 6'4" if he wasn't so disfigured. Like Jason described, the man is wearing a very formal tuxedo, but it does nothing to conceal his worminess. Honestly, just the look of him alone makes my skin crawl. And then he speaks.

His voice is grating, as if he'd just swallowed glass and nails. Hearing it reminds me of the uncomfortable sensation you get from fingernails against a chalkboard. My body tenses reflexively and I can't supress a physical tremor that creeps up my spine.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Firstly I'd like to welcome you to tonight's Mirror House; the apartment of the Kane family. Here, Gabrielle Kane and her daughter Elizabeth were murdered on March 8th, 1998. Here, we stand where their blood was spilt. And what a glorious place to be."

The audience responds with a controlled enthusiasm, clapping daintily but wholeheartedly. Unlike their interactions with one another, they hang off of his every word, completely absorbed in what he has to say. If this were a monarchy, The Dealer would be the king. They crown him as their leader, as their god, and he clearly lives for the attention. He can offer something they may not otherwise be able to source for themselves and that captivates their consumer-driven lives.

"Now, my dear, beautiful friends," he chortles as he inspects the faceless faces that are looking up to him, "we begin tonight's fabulous auction with an equally fabulous collectible item. The one and only two faced coin of our favourite two faced entertainer: Two Face!"

The crowd _'oohs_ ' and _'ahhs'_ as the first sheet is pulled away with a showmanship type of flair. The coin is safely encased in a glass box which begins to spin on a turntable so the bidders can view it from each side: both the light and the dark.

"This coin, as anyone worth anything would know, has been the very tool that has led to some of Mr Dent's greatest hits. The shootings of Arthur Kelly and his wife Sarah, the massacre of the entire Shelby family, including the little baby nephew, Simon, are just some of the many moments that we like to call history. This really is one of a kind… or rather, _two_ of a kind, you might prefer." The audience laughs ecstatically. "Let's start the bids at a minimum $14000. A great deal if there ever was one."

And then suddenly the room switches into intense motion, arms rising and falling swiftly and voices shouting over one another. It's hard to follow, even for me, as the highest bid grows even higher still. What none of them seem to realize is that having that coin is the same as having a death sentence. Harvey is still stalking the city looking for it, and it is only a matter of time before he finds it in the hands of one of these douchebags. They won't even have time to wish they'd never bought the damn thing before they get a bullet right between the eyes. But I'm not going to stop them. Good riddance to whoever is stupid enough to dig their own grave like that. And all just too look mightily impressive to their peers.

Finally, the gavel lands with a sudden, loud thump and The Dealer announces the closing bid of a whopping $25000. It takes all my strength not to make a snarky remark aloud to the whole room and I bite my tongue sharply to ensure the words don't accidentally slip out on their own accord. This is madness.

The thought suddenly strikes me that perhaps they _are_ actually aware of their impending doom when they bid for these things. And maybe that's the point. To them, what could possibly be more honourable than dying at the hands of one of Gotham's greatest villains? If they were to be murdered by Two Face, who in this deranged city would ever forget that person's name? Maybe they aren't so much bidding on the objects themselves, but rather on a high social status. To forever embed themselves into history. To immortalise themselves on the television and in books and in Gotham itself. This is more than madness. It's barbaric. The lengths they go to pamper their own egos.

"Next we have half a gallon of Scarecrow's new and improved fear toxin. This substance is an iconic invention of science. It's a fine art. A delicacy for those blessed enough to receive a dose. And it has been said that it even had Batman falling to his knees, clutched in its terrifying grasp. Just recently his toxin sent a man plummeting out his tenth storey window to his death! What elegance!"

Sickened, I subtly inspect my surroundings again, desperately seeking any sign of Jason amongst the crowd. He must have brought me here with some kind of plan in mind. He wouldn't just leave me to fend for myself… would he? My stomach drops and I suddenly feel heavy and drained. I think Jason may have just stood me up. In a room full of psychopaths, where the threat of a lethal gas looms over me. If they expose me, there's no doubt they will rip the mask from my face and enthusiastically watch as I choke to death.

"$50000."

My body tenses. I know that voice. I can recognise it over everyone else as they continue to shout elatedly. I'd never not hear him whenever he speaks.

Forgetting to act aloof, I spin around, darting around people in a hunt for him. But everyone looks the same. The masks make it hard to discern them from one another and I'm sure I've inspected the same man at least three times now with the same intensity as if he were someone new. But then I see it; the family crest pinned to his lapel, and it causes me to freeze. My fury turns to quivering fear in an instant and I'm cemented in place, like a deer caught in headlights. His head turns and then he must see me. How could he not? He smoothly turns and moves for the exit, seemingly nonchalant about being pursued. That's what riles me back to attention and I rush to follow after him, using my elbows to push my way out of the throng of people and they all watch me, startled.

"Intruder!" The Dealer's cutting voice shouts furiously, and just as the door closes behind me in the hallway, I hear gunshots and then a sudden popping sound almost like a balloon bursting.

I refuse to stop my pursuit of Matthew, no matter what chaos I leave in my wake. But as I run down the candlelit stairs; I see a car speeding off into the night. And just like that, Matthew is gone.

Beaten down by an immediate flood of mixed emotions, I shakily get back into my car, pull off the gas mask, and start the engine, purposely keeping the apartment building out of my line of sight as I drive away from the auction. Whatever has happened in that room is entirely my fault. However many are dead are a consequence of my rashness and my inability to control my rage. And I am shaken by the thought that Bruce was right as his words roll around my head on an incessant loop. The further I drive, the louder his words pound in my ears:

" _"Don't chase after revenge, it will be the death of you."_

This is how it starts. From here it will begin to unravel. There is no repairing what I have done and I can never forgive myself for it. And I can never forget it either. All I can do is try to at least make sure it means something. Something good must come out of this tragedy. Matthew needs to die before I can let this mistake strike me down. Before it kills me in the most painful way that I deserve. Then perhaps Bruce and I can be together in hell, where we belong.

My phone starts ringing from the glove department, and with trembling fingers I dig it out, struggling for a moment to focus on the screen. There are over forty missed calls from both Alfred and Dick, and where my heart is sitting in the pit of my stomach, it begins to fall apart.

Tears sting my eyes as I answer the call and Alfred is yelling and sobbing into my ear.

"It's Robin! The Joker has him!"

The hand I have on the steering wheel tightens and my knuckles turn white. The world just keeps unravelling around me. All that I care about is unspooling before my very eyes and I'm losing it.

I'm losing everything.

"Where?" I choke out weakly, pressing my foot down harder on the accelerator, speeding through a red light and numerous cars honk at me in response.

"Amusement Mile."

"The Joker's Funhouse," I reply stiffly, "I'll get him back, Alfred."

"You have to."

He hangs up and for a moment or two I keep the phone to my ear, just listening to the dial tone, before I gather myself and I toss the phone into the back seat with a scream.

My fault. All my fault. The world is collapsing and it is all my fault.


	16. Chapter 16

I wish I had taken a faster vehicle as I push the Aston Martin to its limit and the engine whines in protest but I refuse to ease up until I'm on the outskirts of Amusement Mile. Joker had established his funhouse here many years before, and through each stint he spent either in Arkham or causing chaos elsewhere, it would remain untouched. Nobody came here by choice, even the GCPD, as it was sure to kill you. Booby trapped to the brim, the once family friendly theme park is now a death trap and now I am about to run into it, completely unprepared, and not at all in the right mindset. But what other choice do I have?

I swiftly change into the bat suit that I kept stored in the trunk just in case I needed it, and then I walk through the entrance toward my death. In the dark, the funhouse is nothing more than dark shadows and fog. But clearly somebody knows I am here as all the lights flicker on at once. The Ferris wheel groans as it slowly starts to turn, the rusted metal grinding and the gears squeaking. Then the carousel sings as the horses prance in the circle. They have been painted over, some resembling bloody corpses and others clad in clown face paint and bright colours.

The music is the same as it was when I was a kid (when I had snuck in one day without buying an entry ticket) but the record has been scratched and the notes keep skipping or dragging, turning it into some kind of ominous lullaby. Which Joker must undoubtedly prefer.

I hear scurrying from behind me and I turn around, pulling three batarangs from my utility belt instinctively. But I can't see anything. And then the noise comes from behind me again. They must be circling me, keeping to the shadows, but I can't turn on my night vision lenses without the lights from the rides blinding me. Then there is suddenly a weight on my back and arms tighten around my neck and legs around my waist. I force back an elbow and hit them firmly in their stomach before reaching back and grabbing their head tightly in my hands, squeezing, and I fling back my head to smack them squarely in the nose. As their grip loosens, I shake them free and pull them over my shoulder. They hit the ground hard, but before I can knock them unconscious, I become swarmed by more of Joker's thugs.

I fight them off but their numbers continue to grow in an endless parade of freaks, clad in circus attire. They do not fear me. Instead, they just fear failing the Joker, whom they have entirely devoted themselves to. Completely loyal to the Clown Prince of Crime. There isn't a hope in this world of me escaping without severely hurting them.

Just as I finally start to gain the upper hand, I see a bat swinging towards my face, and I fall backwards, stunned. Harley stands over me, wielding her bat in preparation for another swing if I attempt to stand up.

"Home run!" she cheers victoriously, looking down at me. Forgetting that I am dressed in Batman's uniform, I hold up a hand, silently begging for her to stop. I do not wish to harm my old friend.

"Now it's time I hit it out of the park," she grins, tightening her grip on the bat, testing the weight of before she swings once more and all I see is black.

"He's coming to, Mr J," Harley's voice rings in my ears and I slowly open my eyes. Everything appears to be blurry, like the room is covered with a strange film or something. Then I realise it isn't the room, it's just me. My head pounds, the bat having beaten me fairly well even through the cowl. I blink a few times, trying to bring everything back into focus but the lights are too bright and my eyes strain to look at anything at all.

 _So much for the rescue mission_ , I think dejectedly, wincing in pain as I try to move. I'm tied to a chair, arms pulled further back than necessary so the joints in my shoulders and elbows ache horribly like they're almost being dragged from their sockets.

"What do you want me to do with him, Puddin?" Harley asks uncertainly, and my eyes finally focus on her standing there. She's still armed with the bat, holding it behind her head horizontally across her shoulders. She must be trying to use it as a substitute for her stolen wooden mallet. Briefly, I think fondly of how she mustn't like it as much. She gets attached to something and struggles to let it go (for a while there, I was one of those things she'd grown attached to. But I had betrayed her. I had pushed her away as I sided with Batman).

"Nothing. _You_ will do _nothing_ to him," Joker's voice reverberates around the room from the doorway. "This isn't your game to play, Harley."

She takes two tentative steps back, smiling towards the Joker, "I tied him up nice and tight for you."

It pains me how hard she tries to please him.

Joker steps into view and he doesn't even give Harley a second glance, and the praise she was waiting for never comes. But the smile on her face never fades. Joker bends down slightly, inspecting me with a noticeable curiosity. I reflexively shrink away from him as much as I can, which isn't very much at all. His bright green hair and bloody red lips starkly contrast against his pale, sickly skin and his eyes bore into me, his pupils never dilating or shrinking. It isn't something I'd ever noticed before.

It is strangely disconcerting.

I stare back at him, just waiting for his eyes to say something. Anything. But nothing changes. They're unresponsive, disconnected, but aren't at all flat. No, his eyes are still somehow multidimensional, with layer upon layer of life and presence in this world. It's just that while the world recognises his existence, he doesn't seem to recognise the world's.

Because I am so alarmed by his eyes, his repulsive smile momentarily goes by forgotten. That is until his teeth are directly in front of me, all big and yellow and sharp. His breath makes my stomach churn, like something rotted in his mouth, but there's a strange sweetness underlying it. Like candyfloss. And together they assault my senses, confusing me as they juxtapose one another.

"Well looky here. It's the Batman rip off," he sneers through his grinning teeth, creeping closer to me and I feel his hands slowly grip my wrists. His right hand rubs my arm gently but the threat it implies is oh so clear. He's smiling but he isn't happy to see me. "What kind of sick comedy act is this? Because the joke is not funny."

I keep my jaw clenched tight, trying not to gag on the smell of his breath. There is nothing I could possibly say to him to escape this. My only hope is that Dick is not far away. Informed of Robin's capture, he is undoubtedly on his way back to Gotham to the rescue. I just have to somehow survive long enough for him to get here.

The Joker leans in even closer, his nose nearly touching my face as he waits for an answer. I thought it was a rhetorical question. When I still don't offer a response, he bursts into a fit of hysterical laughter and finally pulls away.

"Nobody likes cheap gags. No, it's all fart jokes and dreadful puns. We like comedy with a little more flair, don't we, Harley?"

"We're classier than that!" Harley pipes up, overzealous in her contribution to Joker's tirade.

Again, he chooses to ignore her, oblivious to her as she dances around him, shifting from his right side to his left. She's just excited to be taking part at all. _The poor girl_ , I think, he has his hooks digging into her again. I'd hoped she would have found solace in her friendship with Ivy, and that perhaps she would finally stand on her own two strong feet without Joker telling her where to go and who to be. She transforms into something dark and more vicious when she's trying to appease him. She buries her intelligence inside what she thinks he wants.

And there is no pay off.

He ignores her or smacks her around. If there's anything else to their relationship, I haven't seen it. Which to me is proof enough that there isn't in fact anything at all. Certainly nothing worth the abuse she suffers. She is mad and excited and glowing all on her own. The light she possesses dims when she's with him. My old friend loses herself whenever she's in his vicinity.

"Batman and I, we understand one another. He makes me laugh. And I, well, I'm sure I make him laugh on the inside. You know, underneath that sharp jaw and his stern lips and, oh, the boring yet adorable brooding in his eyes. Yes, underneath all that is a funny bone that only I can tickle."

"You make everyone laugh, Puddin," Harley coos, admiring him with a loving stare.

"Because everyone else is too easy to please," Joker replies, exasperated, "He's the only one who can truly appreciate the comedic gold that I have to offer."

He walks out of view for a minute or two but I can hear him muttering something quietly to himself, and only as he draws nearer can I make out the words:

" _Who killed Cock Robin?_

 _I, said the Sparrow,_

 _With my bow and arrow,_

 _I killed Cock Robin._

 _Who saw him die?_

 _I, said the Fly,_

 _With my little eye,_

 _I saw him die._

 _Who caught his blood?_

 _I, said the Fish,_

 _With my little dish,_

 _I caught his blood…"_

As he stands in front of me, he lets the nursery rhyme trail away unfinished. His attention drifts from one thought to the next seemingly with no cause, and often times he never revisits old ideas or considerations again. He's an ever changing entity, undefinable, one minute a psychopathic killer and the next a harmless clown. It's just impossible to tell when that switch will turn over. The people around him always need to be on guard, prepared to fluctuate as abruptly as he does. Or else they could very well end up dead with a smile etched onto their faces.

He scrutinizes the crowbar he holds in his hands, one end of it already stained in fresh blood. It could only be Robin's and I jerk forward in my chair, pulling hard against the rope though it hurts. The effort is futile, anyhow. But I can't just sit still when Robin is here somewhere, either dead or badly wounded. I can't just wait to be told which.

Assuming the Joker even wishes to tell me at all.

He runs the length of the crowbar through his hand, smearing blood over his palm, as he contemplates what he wants to do with it. But I do not fear what pain he may choose to inflict on me, as long as it isn't inflicted on Robin instead.

"You know… bird boy was a hard shell to crack. But like a piñata, I eventually managed to break him and boy is he full of surprises. Now, let me be frank; it wasn't as exhilarating as the first guy. This one didn't scream as much, and you just know how screaming is like music to my ears."

He wields the crowbar in one hand, lining the curved end up with my nose and I can't help but cross my eyes to see the metal between my eyes.

"Something tells me you aren't the screaming type," he looks infuriated, his grimace still somehow resembling something akin to a smile. "I do like a challenge… but what I don't like is party poopers. You know what I'm talking about. They're the ones that blow out the candles on another kid's birthday cake. Or they, like you, refuse to play the party games by the rules."

He pulls the crowbar back, preparing to swing. "I won't let you spoil my fun, not at _my_ party."

I clench my eyes shut, instinctively, my muscles tensing as I wait for the incoming blow. But it never comes. Hesitantly, I open one eye, peeking up at him.

"No," he decides suddenly, holding the crowbar out to Harley who takes it from him. He looks at me, grinning, and he holds my chin in his bloody hand. I can feel it wet and cold against my skin and he wipes it over my lips, forcing me to taste it. My eyes start to sting as I force back fearful tears. If Robin is indeed dead, then that means I have truly failed yet another person who made the mistake of trusting me.

I spit when he finally withdraws his hand, but the metallic taste of blood still lingers in my mouth, all over my tongue and in my teeth. He laughs, amused, and snatches the bat out of Harley's hands.

"A _crow_ bar for a bird, and a _bat_ for a bat," he says, "how… poetic."

"That's beautiful," Harley smiles, watching him still with topmost adoration. Like he is her sun. To her, everything is brightest when he is there.

Nothing good comes from depending on someone like that.

"Oh. Maybe I should take a peek first," he wonders aloud, holding the bat at his side, "see who foolishly thought they could be a pathetic copycat and get away with it. Nobody can fool me! I don't want some run of the mill duplicate when I could have the original make and model. Call me sentimental."

He goes to reach out and pull my cowl off, but then abruptly stops before he even touches it.

"No, no, no. Peeking might spoil everything," he argues with himself, debating profusely back and forth for the next few minutes and I can't do anything but sit there. "There's so much fun to be had! But the game can be so very tedious when you're too familiar with all the players."

"Can't I take a look? Just a little one?" Harley asks with a pout, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"No! Shut up and let me think!" He snaps, clasping the bat tighter in his hand.

"But Puddin'!-" Harley whines desperately.

Joker growls, irritated, his usual smile curling up into a vicious snarl. "Harley! Torture is an art form, not child's play. You can't just think outside of the box, you have to obliterate the box altogether. Otherwise it is just… boring! Don't you understand?!"

She frowns, "so you're trying to make a Picasso rather than a Da Vinci?"

"Exactly!"

"But maybe one small peek? A little Da Vinci every now and then can be nice."

"Da Vinci is never nice, Harley. It just isn't. I expected you to have better taste than that."

He rests the bat on his shoulder and heads for the doorway, looking a little crestfallen. The way a child looks when they've just been told that Santa isn't real. Clearly his evening isn't going the way he had hoped.

"I need time to scheme," he announces to the room and departs, leaving Harley and I alone together.

Harley stands, hands behind her back, and she rocks back and forth on the heels of her feet, gnawing her bottom lip between her teeth. She's just dying to take a look at who is hidden under the cowl and I say nothing to either egg her on or push her away. She glances sideways to the empty doorway, thinking hard and fast, and then finally she decides, snapping to attention.

"What Mr J don't know won't hurt him. A little Da Vinci never hurt nobody," she reasons and brusquely dumps the bloody crowbar down on the floor and moves forward to look at me. She takes the material of the cowl in her hand and pulls it free, freezing when she sees little old me underneath it.

"Kitty?" she asks in a surprised whisper. She's stunned frozen, unsure now of how to proceed.

"Hey, Harl," I whisper to her with a sheepish smile, an apology lingering in my eyes.

"Have you always been…how have you…?"

She doesn't know what question to ask first and I know I don't have time to answer them in any case. It's hard to estimate how long the Joker will be gone. It could be in a matter of seconds, or a matter of hours.

"Harley, listen to me. You have to let me out of here," I plead. "I know I've made some mistakes. But I also know how wonderfully forgiving you are. How brilliant and kind and worthy you are. I respect the hell out of you, and I know that deep down you do not want to hurt me. No matter what I have done in the past."

"But you and Batman-" she starts, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion and uncertainty. There's a quiver on her lip as she thinks back to the last time we saw one another. I had practically abandoned her and Ivy that night, my loyalties changing so suddenly that I probably gave them whiplash. I had proven to them, in that moment, that I could not be trusted. My allegiance depended purely on what I could gain, and at the time, Bruce had more to offer. I'd foolishly devoted myself to him out of some kind of naïve desire, and it had come back to bite me.

"I know, Harley. I know. But in the end, I helped you and Ivy escape," I point out.

I omit the truth behind my actions. I was fond of them, sure, but I also wanted to keep my options open. I wanted to have a backup plan if I needed one, and they seemed like as good a plan as any. I'd used them, played around with them like they were my own toys. I'd abused their friendship. And I think I taught them that 'unconditional' love actually always has conditions. I had broken them; Harley far worse than Ivy (Ivy wasn't so dependent on those around her).

"I don't know, Kitty," Harley says nervously, her eyes big and sad and the most striking blue. "Mr J would be mad…"

"Please, Harley. After everything we have been through," I beg tearfully.

Still looking torn about what she ought to do, she steps behind me and unties the rope, letting me loose. Then she pulls me to my feet, squeezing me in an insanely tight hug that knocks the air right out of my lungs. After a moment of shock, I hug her back with genuine love and care and appreciation. I had been idiotic in losing one of the greatest friends I'd ever had. It was a mistake I would not repeat again.

"Thank you, Harley," I smile, finally pulling myself out of her embrace. "Where's Robin?" I don't ask whether he is alive. I'm terrified of finding out. And he is leaving with me no matter what; alive or dead. I refuse to abandon him here in this hellhole with Joker.

"In the Horror Train ride," she tells me and looks down the hallway, making sure it's empty, "then leave via the back exit from the park."

I nod and follow her instructions after one long, lingering gaze and we smile at one another affectionately. I pull the cowl back on as I leave to find the Horror Train.


	17. Chapter 17

The rides are still in motion when I get outside, the lights still flashing and the ominous music playing loud as ever. The few freaks that are still conscious are wandering around, spread out thin across the park. They're entirely unassuming, confident that tonight's work is done and they pay little attention as I sneak through the shadows. Desperately, I try to remember the layout of the park from when I came as a kid, since very little, if anything, has been changed from all those years ago. But my memory is hazy, that night far too brief and unimportant to stay fresh in my mind.

I travel along the outskirts of the park the best I can, sticking by the fence to circle the place in its entirety to search it from the outside in. Along the way I find the back exit that Harley told me about. It's just a small rusted gate in the tall fence, intended only for staff, and the bolt is still locked. It's been left unused for all this time, probably completely overlooked or forgotten by Joker and his goons. I whisper a quiet thank you to Harley for her true and honest heart.

There's a sudden pained scream from nearby and I chase after it, using the ongoing cries to lead me right to the Horror Train. The dim lights are on, and the robotic figures out front clang as they move. A figure wielding an axe swings it back and forth jerkily, the gears probably rusted with age. Another figure is seated in an electric chair and erratically shakes every few seconds with an accompanying buzzing sound effect that bursts out inconsistently and at differing volumes. It's a surprise that it even works at all.

Joker has gone and added his own personal touch; his name spray painted in front of the name of the ride, announcing it as his very own personal play pen: Joker's Horror Train. I shudder to think of what other modifications he may have made to it to make it less of a ride and more a torture chamber. I'd rather not imagine what Robin has endured for these past few hours.

The train is in motion, looping endlessly along its track. I can hear it beneath the screaming in the distance as I enter the building, the wheels sparking and squealing on the old rails. I intend to wait for the train to complete its circuit and meet me at the entrance, but then the screams abruptly stop, the only sound now that of the wheels grinding on the track and the echoing laughter of the ride's soundtrack. With my heart sinking, I switch on my night vision and navigate the tunnels at a fast pace, forcing my way past a row of TV screens displaying images of Barbara Gordon naked and bleeding on the floor.

I keep my eyes downcast but the pictures are already seared into my brain, abusing me with all her pain and trauma. My own spine tingles as I contemplate what she must have felt in that moment when opening the door to that repulsive smile of his.

It would have happened so fast.

Hearing the gunshot and feeling nothing in an instant. She must have been waiting to feel it; the agony you'd expect from a gunshot wound. And when that pain never came, how did she react? What does one do when they realise that they will never walk again?

Because surely she must have known.

She didn't need to wait for a doctor to break the bad news. As she lay there, left bare and alone and dying, there must have been not much else to do but imagine life without the use of her legs.

If I was her, I'd resent how it wasn't so much that I'd lost the ability to walk, but rather that it was _taken_ from me. From a man who would need little more motivation than just combatting boredom.

It's hard to tell whether he knew at the time that she was Batgirl, or whether he targeted her simply for being the commissioner's daughter. Either way, he left a bigger scar than he could have ever anticipated. But here he is: reusing old tricks and bad jokes. Without even knowing how much it hurts. Maybe he simply doesn't care.

These photos must still be able to make him laugh. I can't imagine why else he'd not only still have them, but also bring them out for show and tell the same way a mother pulls out old family photos to laugh at embarrassing pictures of her children naked in the bathtub or playing dress-ups in the opposite genders' clothes.

He's fond of the past. The glory days. Back when shooting an innocent girl in the spine was fresh and artistic. He must reminisce on them and think with a distant smile: _'Oh, those were the good ol' days.'_

Personally, I have no desire to live in the past.

Something is dripping up ahead but I can only hear the pitter-patter of it hitting the metal tracks when I break one of the ride's speakers with a well thrown batarang. Upon closer inspection, I can only assume the substance is some kind of chemical. It sizzles and steams as it makes contact with the ground. Looking up, I discover its origin. It oozes from the growing gaps in ceiling, slowly eroding the wooden planks. I sidestep around it, fairly confident that the acid isn't potent enough to burn through my uniform, but I'm still unwilling to take the risk, lest it touches the skin of my chin and burns me.

Moving forward, I have to cut away at sharp splinters of glass embedded in the walls of a narrow section of the ride, and I try my hardest not to make assumptions based on the amount of blood coating them. I have to believe that the boy isn't screaming not because he can't, but because he won't. He doesn't want to give Joker the satisfaction.

Through torture he has only grown thicker skin; he has made his mind impenetrable: immune to Joker's venomous insanity. He's cured himself of hopelessness, knowing that the longer he endures, the closer he is to rescue. Damian has conquered this suffering because he has no other choice. Bruce certainly wouldn't have given him the option of giving up; and I won't either. Him and me, we greet pain like an old friend and we make ourselves come out looking stronger on the other side.

The nagging thought abuses me, nevertheless: the thought that my immunity to pain is a performance. Different scripts with different characters but same plot line. I get hurt and I subject my pain to some kind of unfit therapy. Like putting a band aid on a gunshot wound without even removing the bullet. I dress it up and display myself as something shiny and new. I think by doing so, I make a blank canvas on which people feel the need to decorate with my blood. But how can I blame them when I flawlessly advertise myself to be unharmed?

Damian, in all his ferocity and stubbornness and solitude, may very well grow into a man that reflects the woman I have become. Cold. Harsh. All the while acting like a thrilling creature that thrives on the delinquency of Gotham City. Together, we will put on our show, we will persuade our audience to believe that it's okay to hurt us because we won't feel it. It's a twisted game to play, and I don't want Damian to take any part in it.

I want him to be okay. And I want him to mean it.

With a growing determination, I move at a run, gaining distance on wherever the train is along this maze and the sound of it intensifies in clarity, not just in volume but in focus. I can discern the sparking from the rusted squeals of the bolts. I can recognise the clatter of the carriages grazing the walls as it tilts precariously on the damaged course. There's at least some comfort in knowing I'm making progress of some kind and in some greater capacity. My damsel in distress can't be far away, now.

Then the train is in my line of sight, the faint shadow of a slumped over figure sitting in the front carriage. His body sways slightly as the train turns and takes sharp corners, his weight moving limply as if unconscious.

Or dead.

But I refuse to believe that the life has already left him. That his heart is quiet and still, his chest flat and lungs contracted as they simply refuse to rise and fall the way they are supposed to. I won't accept that his eyes may be dim, empty of his usual mean spirit, and his mouth soft-lost without his defiance to guide his lips into a stern line. His brusque nature is something I've come to greatly admire. I'll be damned if that is taken away from me.

"Robin," I hiss, unwilling to shout his name despite wanting to. Desperately. It isn't worth the risk of being heard by Joker or one of his goons.

I run to him, climbing from carriage to carriage somewhat clumsily in my reckless abandon. I'm not so focused on _how_ I get to him, just as long as I get to him. I grip his shoulder and shake him roughly, trying to waken him with the sudden, sharp motion. His weight falls forward and I pull his body back against me, holding him to my chest and wrapping my arms around him.

"You wake up, right now. You hear me?" I grit my teeth, rubbing his arms with trembling hands. "You fucking wake up or you'll never hear the end of it. You little bastard."

As I force my alarm to subside, I can feel his chest weakly moving beneath my arms, and his back shifts against my chest. The most awesome relief washes over me as I now know for sure that he in fact alive and breathing.

"I'm getting you out of here," I say breathily, moving to cut the ropes from his wrists. Even with the night vision, I can't assess the extent of his wounds, but my hands come back wet when I release him and I can only assume that it is blood. Which means he has bled a lot. A dangerous amount.

His body, though small, is still a considerable dead weight on my back as I lift him up over my shoulder. I have to hope that I'm not damaging him more by moving him like this, at least not in some irreparable way.

Though it was surprisingly easy to navigate my way in, the journey back out is remarkably harder as I have to ease us through tight spaces and I struggle to watch my feet on the uneven flooring without dropping him. The glass grazes me on the way back through, and I'm surprised when I can actually feel it dig into my skin and the cuts burn. They must be coated in the acid. Which is stronger than I had first anticipated. Unfortunately, when I reach the part where the acid drips down, the flow has increased significantly as it has eroded bigger holes in the ceiling. I shift Damian so he is held limp in my arms and I bend my upper body over him so he is safely cradled. I have little choice but to power walk through the sprinkling waterfall of toxic chemicals, and so, trying my best to keep him nestled away from the danger, I continue onwards and ground my teeth as my suit and skin sizzle.

Had the train had time to continue with Damian as its sole passenger, the drips would have grown into a river, eventually killing him and corroding his remains. He would have died, but not without feeling the intense cycle of pain first. Joker would never let him off so easy. Even first beating him with a crowbar wasn't satisfaction enough for him. It had to be slower, drag out even longer.

When I make it outside, Joker's goons are racing hectically around the park, shouting to one another in indiscernible panic. They must have been made aware of my escape and are afraid of Joker's oncoming wrath. Their only hope is to rectify the problem and return me to that chair where I'm available to him for torture. Or to listen to his constant ramblings. Though what difference is there between the two, really? I think with time my tolerance for his vocal nonsense would wear down and I'd beg for death just so I wouldn't have to listen to him talk anymore. Surely, most people would eventually agree.

I hide myself and Robin in the shadows, which is more difficult now with him held in my arms. It's much harder to balance myself and I'm far too slow. But just as my hope starts to diminish, I notice how their running isn't so hectic and random after all. They're all moving in the same general direction: away from the Horror Train and also from where I had been held captive. Something, or someone, else has their attention. While they are still distracted, I allow myself to cut corners for the sake of getting to the exit faster and I'm ridiculously lucky to not be seen.

"Batman? Can you hear me?" Nightwing's voice crackles in my earpiece. Until now, the signal had been interrupted somehow. Transmissions blocked from coming in and out. I can only guess that as I get closer to the forgotten back exit, the signal can reach me.

"I can hear you now," I respond hastily.

"Do you have Robin? Is he-?"

"I have him. He's alive, but barely."

"I have Joker and his freaks distracted by the front entrance. I'm giving you some time but I can't hold them for long on my own."

"Look at you. Prince Charming sweeping in to save my ass. Again." I try a hand at weak humour.

"I'm not in the joking mood, Selina. And you certainly shouldn't be either." Anger drips from his words.

"You're rubbing your temples again, aren't you?" I hoist Damian more securely onto my back.

There's a moment of silent hesitation.

"Don't test me. Not right now."

It takes all my strength not to respond with another inappropriate, quippy remark. I swear it's his fault. He brings out the worst in me.

"What's your location?"

I lower Damian to the ground so I can work open the rusted lock on the old gate. I can hear voices in the distance but they become fainter as they travel to the front entry where Dick is successfully keeping them occupied. Luckily my life of crime has gifted me with a certain skill set and the lock pops open with very little effort. Though it's a job in itself to get Robin back up over my shoulder now that I'd already put him down.

"I just left the park via the staff gate."

"The car is not far from you. Go straight to the cave, as fast as you can. Alfred is waiting with medical aid."

As promised, I don't go far before seeing the car up ahead and I take Damian to it and slide him into the passenger seat with some clumsy manoeuvring. The faintest of groans passes his lips and I run my fingers through his hair gently.

"We're going home, buddy," I promise and together we speed off into the night, broken but incredibly alive.


	18. Chapter 18

He'd never looked this small before. Or this frail. Oddly he closely resembles Bruce; his body bandaged and his skin cut and bruised. He's a painful reminder of what I left upstairs: the broken body I had turned my back on all those nights ago. And for the briefest of moments, I forget why that is.

As I remember, I am struck by regret. Regret for behaving the way I had. The same way the commissioner sees the world one way but treats it another, I saw myself in Bruce and yet isolated him like he alone was capable of mistakes. My own mistakes had killed _her_ and had near killed Damian too. It was only a matter of time before my poor decisions came back to finish the job.

Alfred had explained that Robin, being left alone in the cave for the night, had tried to contact me upon hearing news of Joker's location. Having left my communicator behind for the sake of blending in at the Mirror House, and not wanting my whereabouts to be known, I hadn't heard him. Since I had made it clear to him before that he ought to be trusted with more responsibility, he correctly assumed that I would let him loose on his own. I'm ashamed to admit to anyone that I would, had he asked, let him go after the Joker alone without me to protect him. I'd believed that he didn't need protecting. He had saved me more often than I had him, and I had allowed that to blur my judgement. Consequently, his had begun to blur too. He felt braver and more capable than before. Really, it was naïve. But all the same I had taught him a right from a wrong, when I had never been nothing but wrong.

Wrong in every way from who I dated and the friends I let down, to the criminals I chose to associate myself with. I went from stealing to survive to stealing for the pleasure, and I then placed my own stamp of approval on it as if that justified it.

I'd lead Damian down this path of self-destruction the same way I had already fallen down that rabbit hole.

Bruce must know this too, as suddenly he is there, his body less bandaged than before but he limps as he walks over, slower than what the crazed look in his eyes would suggest. He's only just gotten back onto his feet recently, and he most likely hasn't had occasion to use his newfound mobility. Simply, he has been far too depressed to move.

But he is moving now. With a whole new determination that I hadn't seen in a long time, and I'm relieved that his eyes are alive (even if they are wild and agonised). He looks straight past me, focusing on Damian's unconscious form on the bed and he moves to his side, clasping the boy's hand in his own.

"My son," he pleads, watching Damian's face for any sign of consciousness. "My boy…"

I furrow my brow, gnawing my bottom lip between my teeth in angst. Bruce had always treated Dick like his own child, but still never named him as such. The same way Dick never called Bruce his father. So what made Damian and Bruce any different, unless they were in fact father and son? They looked alike, both dark haired and blue eyed with the same nose. But they behaved as if they were from different worlds; Damian's less privileged and less scattered. He'd been raised into a life of fighting evil, but not by Bruce, which explained why he worked so hard to prove himself and also why Bruce tried too hard to stop him. Because Damian wasn't just a boy he had taken under his wing, he was his son.

"Master Bruce, your son will be fine," Alfred assures him. "His uniform kept him alive but he did sustain multiple broken bones and the acid has corroded parts of his flesh. With the proper medical attention, he will recover."

I stand off to the side, watching this exchange from a distance, a part of me wishing I could just disappear. Unfortunately, I've never been that lucky. Alfred turns his attention to me and approaches with the medical kit in hand.

"You've been injured," he states simply and gestures to a chair. I don't immediately sit down, instead watching as Bruce caresses his son's cheek in his hand. "Miss Kyle, I insist you sit down this instant."

There's genuine anger in his voice and it startles me into doing as he says. He rarely addresses me that way anymore, not since the night I confronted Bruce about the truth of his disappearance as Batman.

"I'm sorry, Alfred," I whisper.

"Sorry? All of you must be trying to give me a heart attack. Not only do you all insist on risking your lives night after night, but then you all have the audacity to come home broken and unwilling to accept help. I don't just sit around waiting anxiously only to be pushed aside when someone finally comes home. I refuse to hear these false assurances and the stupid bravado anymore, you hear me? You're hurt so I am going to patch up your wounds and I don't want to hear a single complaint about it."

I don't offer any kind of response, whether it be compliance or resistance and he seems to take my silence to mean the latter. Over the years he had heard little more than stoic defiance and he found that nothing good ever came from it.

"Do you understand me?" he asks severely, attending to my acidic burn wounds. I hiss as he cleans them and my skin stings beneath his hands.

"I understand," I confirm quietly and glance at Bruce who still hasn't moved from Damian's side. He has yet to acknowledge my existence in the room but I feel no urgency for his attention. The sooner his focus turns to me, the sooner I'll have to answer for my mistakes.

"What did Joker do to him?" Alfred gestures to Damian's limp form but doesn't look away from me as he bandages my arm. It must pain him to see the young boy so close to death.

I hesitate to answer, again sending a sidelong look towards Bruce. I don't think it wise that he hears the details of what happened. Especially since I don't really know most the details myself. I didn't see the pain that was inflicted on him as it happened. I couldn't say how many times he had gone around that rail line, how many drops of acid had burned his skin, or how many times Joker decided to swing the crowbar against Damian's ribs. I can't accurately describe the torture as I failed to feel it for myself.

"He was beaten with a crowbar," I start, "then left on the Horror Train. I'm not sure for how long… there was acid and glass and images of Barbara…" I swallow hard and refuse to continue.

Bruce stands upright, his jaw tense, and stares, unblinking, at the floor. He had feared history repeating itself, and had sought my help to keep that from happening. He, in his bedridden state, had trusted that Batman was safe with someone else adorning the suit. He too, like the others, had wrongfully placed his faith in me and as a result is reliving his nightmares.

That thought hurts too much.

I can't be the only one at fault. Bruce knew better than anyone what Joker was capable of. Hell, after Jason and Barbara, amongst countless others, very little else was to be expected from the Clown Prince of Crime. It was only a matter of time before another of Bruce's family fell victim to Joker's schemes. I was only to blame for having it happen sooner rather than later.

"Why won't you kill him?" I spit but Bruce doesn't even flinch at the venom in my voice, "after everything he has done to you. Because of you. For you. Why won't you do what needs to be done and kill the son of a bitch?!"

"Don't act as if you aren't at fault," he mumbles calmly.

"It's my fault I let him off the short leash that _you_ kept him on. It's my fault I didn't get to him sooner. But your son wouldn't be in this position if you had just made an exception to your stupid rule and killed Joker. Gotham would have been better off without him."

"Then who would take his place? And how many lives must that person take before I need to kill them as well?" He crosses his arms and tilts his head slightly to one side, contemplating me. He has a way of making me feel self-conscious. About everything from what I say to how I say it. Sometimes I think he doesn't even do it on purpose. "Sure, maybe sometimes the ends justifies the means, but what happens when there are no ends?"

"How long will it take for you to understand where I'm coming from?"

"How long is a piece of string?" he glares, standing taller so I appear even smaller in comparison.

Normally this would be the part where I'd kiss him, and he would resist for only a moment before giving in and kissing me back with an equal ferocity. Somehow I don't think it would be appropriate right now. At least not with Alfred and Damian in the room. I subtly lick my lips and I swear he actually blushes and tries to hide it with a furious shake of his head.

"Not this time," he points a finger at me in warning and I smirk. At least I still have that effect on him; for what it's worth.

Before I can retaliate, a motorbike roars from the tunnel leading into the cave and we turn to watch as Nightwing speeds down the road and pulls up in front of us with a squeal from his tires. He pulls the helmet from his head with perfect ease and shakes the hair from his eyes. It's always a disconcerting sight whenever I see he isn't smiling. Which, as of late, has been the case more often than not. The whole dark and brooding look doesn't really suit him.

Alfred attempts to check him over for any wounds but Dick waves him off, "I'm fine, Alfred." The older man rolls his eyes at the ceiling, frustrated at needing to repeat the same lecture he'd just given me. "No, seriously. I'm unharmed. Cross my heart." Dick draws an invisible cross over his chest to emphasise his point.

Bruce places a hand on Dick's shoulder and closes the distance between them, pulling the younger man in for a tight hug. Dick's eyes widen in surprise and he hugs back timidly, his arms loose around his father figure. Clearly this isn't a normal interaction for either of them. After losing Jason, Tim leaving to join the Teen Titans, and now Damian unconscious and beaten half to death; Bruce must be more vulnerable than he has ever been before.

Finally, something inside him-the part that allows himself to love-has awoken to what is right in front of him: his family. It's the furthest thing from perfect, but it's his family all the same.

Which is far better than what I have. For that, I'll forever be envious.

Nightwing abruptly pulls away from Bruce and holds two fingers against his earpiece, listening closely to whoever is speaking. Then his eyes dart up to meet mine, his face suddenly turning pale. Wordlessly he goes to the monitor and taps furiously at the keyboard until a confidential report from the GCPD appears on the screen.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he demands to know and I quickly skim read the report, my heart hammering feverishly in my chest. Alfred and Bruce move in closer as they too read about the auction.

I'd heard gunfire as I chased after Matthew, but miraculously nobody was shot. Yet fifteen people died. They asphyxiated on the toxic fumes that The Dealer released when I blew my cover, their gas masks still securely fitted upon their faces. How could that be? Either Jason was a terrible shot… or he was a terrific one. He was thorough in his activities, even cleaning up after me when I let the paedophile burglar escape. So it's hard to imagine him missing his unarmed targets, especially when they were all gathered close together in the same room.

Unless he wasn't trying to kill them all?

"I wasn't there," I lie smoothly.

"No? Because there was a red bat symbol spray painted on the scene," Dick says, "and you always have been one for theatrics."

"I wasn't there," I repeat sternly. He actually looks sad as he retrieves something from a compartment on his bike. He holds the gas mask up for everyone to see and then tosses it at my chest. I catch it and set it aside as if it burnt at the touch.

"I found it on the passenger seat when I moved the car to the back exit of the park," he explains. "Why would you do this?"

"I didn't."

"You can't blame me for not believing you." He's perfected the look of disappointment.

Instinctively I turn to Bruce. He must know I didn't do it. He has to.

"Matthew was there, wasn't he?!" Bruce roars, making us all jump, startled. "He's the only reason you're still here. He's been the end game this whole time. So what loss is a few narcissistic, wealthy tyrants in the grand scheme of things?"

"If that were true then why isn't he amongst the dead?" I strike back, fists trembling. "I didn't kill anyone. I have but only one name on my 'to kill' list, and I don't plan on having any unnecessary casualties."

"At this point, I wouldn't put it past you," he retaliates, "after what you did to Scarecrow."

"Yes, I went too far with that burlap sack of shit," I allow, "but I'm still only responsible for one death. Just one. And she died at Matthew's hands, not mine." I point at the screen, "You know me better than anyone. Look me in the eyes and tell me I did it."

There's a tense silence as Dick, Alfred and I await Bruce's response. For the longest time he doesn't meet my eyes and then finally he just shakes his head. He doesn't look into my eyes because he doesn't need to. He just knows. There are audible exhales in relief from the three of us, the tension beginning to fade but it still lingers like a bad smell.

"Think about everything I've said to you about revenge," Bruce pleads and carefully picks up his son, cradling him in his arms. He doesn't understand that he's still the only reason why I've hesitated. Why I haven't broken into Matthew's home and killed him as he sleeps. "Don't take what happened today lightly, Selina. I won't make the mistake of putting my son's life in your hands again."

Dick sheepishly kicks the ground with the toe of his foot, subconsciously rubbing one temple. It's become a nervous compulsion, like the way some people bite their nails or scratch at the palm of their hands. Bruce must have said the same thing to him, though perhaps not in those exact words. And he still feels responsible for Damian's safety, even after all this time. As he watches Bruce carry the boy up the stairs, he slumps his shoulders in shame, reliving the moment he let his father figure down all over again.

"I'll uh… I'll make up your bed for you, Richard. I'm sure you'll be needed here over the next couple of nights," Alfred murmurs.

"Yeah, I'm sure I will be," he agrees and they leave the cave together, leaving me standing there on my own to contemplate all that I've done.

My earpiece crackles and I adjust it with a shaking hand, biting my lip hard between my teeth.

"Meet tomorrow night in Crime Alley. Come alone. Obviously." Jason has nothing else to say.


	19. Chapter 19

"I've been on some strange dates in my time, but this is definitely up there," I say to his back, "it makes the top five at least."

"Really? I would have thought Crime Alley was a very romantic hotspot. Or at the very least it's suitable for a quick fuck."

"Yeah, because _that's_ romantic," I wrinkle my nose a little in disgust. He turns around to face me, the helmet already nestled in the crook of his arm. "Why did you decide to meet here of all places?"

"It has history," he runs his gloved hand along the brick wall with a look of resigned familiarity. "It's where Bruce experienced the worst day of his life and I experienced the best day of mine."

"It probably isn't wise of you to share so much," I point out and half-heartedly kick an empty beer can from my path.

"I see no risk in it since we're already acquainted," he shrugs comfortably. "Besides. It seems only fair you know more about me since I already know all there is to know about you."

I quirk an eyebrow, surprised. Is he challenging me? "Are we really having the 'I know you better than you know yourself' conversation? Because, honey, it bores me. It really does. It's all smoke and mirrors."

"Selina Kyle. Daughter of alcoholic layabout Brian Kyle, and uncompassionate manic depressive Maria Kyle. Orphaned at ten years of age after your mother committed suicide by slashing her wrists and bleeding out in the bathtub, and your father drank himself to death. At an early age you fell victim to the system, eventually stealing documents that exposed the orphanage administrator's corruption in embezzled funds. Which left you little choice but to take to the streets, stealing to survive. That was until you were taken into a gang of young thieves and your skills were refined. Of course all this came before your brief stint in prostitution-"

"I'm a criminal, remember? I have a record," I remark stiffly, "You had years to access my files before your run in with the Joker. You'll have to try harder to impress me."

"You have a point," he allows. "Okay. So maybe something a little more personal. Something you keep close to your chest…" He starts to circle me. Having done this dance with him before, I'm not intimidated. "What about Katherine Hadwell?"

My heart skips a beat. "Don't talk about her."

"I'm assuming Bruce knows the story. He has a habit of sticking his nose into other people's business. Perhaps that's where I got it from," Jason scratches his chin in mock contemplation. "Ms Katherine Hadwell, recently deceased eighty year old retiree living in an old block of flats in a dodgy neighbourhood. How old were you when she found you sitting on her doorstep? Come on, Selina, play along. How old?"

I clench my fists at my sides, my muscles tensing as I become absolutely livid. He has no right to talk about her. Let alone taunt me with my loss of her and force me into recounting her death as if this were some game we always played like dead-people-mad-libs.

"You were nineteen, weren't you? You'd had some bad run-ins with the cops as it was and hadn't eaten in days. You'd always been a survivor, but for a while there you were truly suffering. Worse than you ever had before. Until she found you and took you under her wing. But despite all her kindness and hospitality, you couldn't be tamed. You didn't trust anyone more than you trusted yourself, so you never allowed yourself to settle down in her care. You could go out and roam the streets the way you wanted and then run to her whenever you needed a meal and a bed to sleep in. It was a good deal for you, wasn't it, Selina? For years. Except for the occasional dispute whenever you went too far in your criminal endeavours."

"Please stop," I plead, "you have _no idea_ what you're talking about."

"This arrangement worked until recently, after Matthew Carter bought the block of units and you discovered he was blackmailing his tenants. Tenants who were poor, old, disabled or mentally ill. He manipulated them all, including Katherine, into hiding large quantities of illicit drugs in their homes. By the time you saw beyond your own conceded needs, she was already in a state of rapid deterioration; stressed beyond repair from constant threats of eviction, torture or death. So it just seemed like a bright idea to steal from him, didn't it?"

I swing a fist at him but he catches it easily in one hand, gripping tightly so I can't pull away.

"You took all his stashes and sold them," he yanks the cowl from my head so he can see my face. So it's me he's talking to and not the mask.

"I intended to use the money to relocate all the people that scumbag took advantage of," I explain desperately. I hope that he can see some good in what I did. Because I certainly can't see it for myself anymore.

"Yes, you did. But, like always, you underestimated who exactly you were stealing from. You thought of yourself as a big fish in a little pond. You didn't realise you were sharing that little pond with a big, nasty piranha. And he came after you in the best way he knows how. Tell me what he did, Selina."

"He… He targeted everything I cared about. He blew up my apartment and he tortured and killed her."

"Which is why you want him dead." He isn't asking me. He knows. "I saw you chase after him at the auction. But I could tell you had no idea what you'd do if you caught him. You subconsciously let him get away but I don't fully understand why. Why are you stalling?"

"I don't know. I wish I did," I admit, though I do feel as if Bruce is the biggest reason of all. There's still a part of me that fears his rejection. It's the irrational part of me that somehow, someway, always seems to win out. "What happened at the auction? What did you do?"

"I knew who all the invited guests were, and I knew everything about each and every one. All their dirty little secrets. So I switched out the gas masks of those that deserved to die-"

"That way they'd asphyxiate on the gas whilst everyone else survived," I finish for him, stunned. "Why the gunshots?"

"Because you blew the plan. I had to fire up at the ceiling to keep everyone from swarming you and ripping your mask from your stupid face. Matthew Carter would be dead right now if you hadn't chased him from the room like an imbecile."

My heart sinks. "Why have me there at all?"

"Because I wanted to show you that I'm on your side. We want the same things."

"That's not true. You and I are very different."

"Is that so?"

"Why don't you kill the Joker?" I ask, snatching the cowl from his hands and I wring the material in my fists, working the tension away. Surely Jason had both the right and reason to kill that maniac clown after all he'd suffered at his hands.

There had to be a reason why he wouldn't do it. Just one.

"As much as I'd like the pleasure of murdering that evil bastard, he isn't mine to kill. His death belongs to Bruce, and Bruce alone."

"And The Barbarian is mine," I move in closer so we're standing within inches of each other, my head slightly uplifted so our eyes lock paths. "We're different because Matthew is my end game. You don't have an endgame. You don't have a stopping point."

"If that's true, then why are you going after him in the guise of the bat? He took everything from Selina Kyle, not Batman. So it should be you, Selina, who takes revenge." He takes one of his handguns from its holster, switching it out for the cowl in my hands and I hold it flat on my open palm at arm's reach. The metal is cold to the touch, the weight of it both physically and metaphorically heavy as I finally wrap my fingers around it.

"Reckon you can handle that?" he asks uncertainly, watching my unease with annoyance.

"I've handled a gun before," I sound far too defensive to be convincing.

"Yeah, but have you ever actually shot someone before?"

"There's a first for everything," I mutter and tuck the gun into my belt.

"The trick is to not think of people as people. Which I found to be surprisingly easy once I knew all the awful things they had done."

"I thought the trick was to picture them in their underwear?" Again I snatch the cowl from his grasp and I pull it back on.

"That's for stage fright," he smiles crookedly. For just a second he doesn't look like a complete douchebag.

"Oh. Right. What was I thinking," I clap him hard on the shoulder. Harder than I need to so he knows that while we are a team of sorts, we are not friends. He claps my shoulder hard in return, telling me that my point is not only understood, but it's agreed upon. Our lives are too complicated to exist together in any way beyond what we already have.

"Jason… Did Bruce actually hit you when you were a boy?" I ask timidly. I'm surprised when he doesn't give an immediate response. He just looks at me, startled and confused. I wait, but still the answer doesn't come. He doesn't seem to know what that answer should be.

"He used to beat me," he responds finally but his voice wavers, as if he remains unsure. It doesn't sound like the truth, but it fails to sound like a complete lie either. Perhaps he really doesn't know.

"I'm sorry I asked." I pity his look of dejection and the way his eyes are darting back in forth as though lost in thought.

Jason nods once and eases his red helmet back on, masking his face as he walks down the alleyway towards the quiet street. His body casts a looming shadow along the bricks, the dark figure steadily growing in size and rising taller than himself. For reasons unbeknownst, my memory captures this moment: him walking into the light with his wrath personified as a shadow on the wall. As if he has shrivelled in the face of what he plans to become. I know this is how I'll always remember him: so small, and consumed by a devil city much larger than it ought to be.

I have to wonder how, after this is all over, he'll remember me.


	20. Chapter 20

Gotham has a way of swallowing you whole and spitting you back out. She's a cursed city, her life beating like a sinner's heart, her atmosphere bittersweet like a bite out of the forbidden fruit.

And she's undeniably beautiful.

At least from a distance.

Up close she's dark and twisted, all sharp edges and aged stone, the streets tainted with shattered glass and spilled blood that hadn't yet been washed away in the rain.

Oh, but from afar she is truly something else.

At night she is as much a sin as she is a sinner; lit up and alive with wealth, excitement and vitality. So what makes her this corrupt, broken thing? After all these years I think I finally understand. Gotham is so alive with crime because she needs it. She breeds delinquency and then feasts upon it zealously.

Everything I couldn't help but love about her is gone, as if I'm just seeing her for the first time through another's eyes. Even from afar I see her as she is up close.

She has spat me back out, and I distinctly feel the pang of futility. The recognition of having taken three steps forward and then fifty steps back. The knowledge that all the work I had done has unravelled itself.

After speaking to Jason in Crime Alley the night before, I think of myself an imposter in Batman's suit. Now more than ever, it doesn't fit right. I think wearing it for so long took something from me; something I have yet to reclaim. I'm not sure if it was something as simple as a thought or an idea, but whatever it was, it was important.

By walking these streets without a mask to conceal me from this city, I think I'm beginning to sense what's missing. It is everything I had failed to witness; all that I had overlooked.

It starts with a woman. She's standing on the curb, a lit cigarette held between her thin fingers but she's past smoking it, the embers burning at the filter. If I were to look up close, I imagine there is ash dusting the toes of her cheap, pink suede stilettos. From here I can see tears in her fishnet stockings and stains from spilt alcohol on her too tight dress. Despite the icy breeze, she's without a jacket to keep her warm, her arms thin and pale under the streetlight. Her hair is windblown and knotted from numerous nights spent in the back seats of stranger's cars and/or lying upon bags of rubbish in alleyways beneath the rough weight of a man. But what gets me most is the smear of her pink lipstick, and the thick layer of dark eyeshadow that barely conceals the bruise around her right eye. As she sways upon her tired feet, slightly intoxicated to desensitize her pain, I don't pity her. I empathise.

She's one of the women Robin and I rescued from Kevin Driver's small trafficking operation. Though it appears 'rescued' isn't the optimal word for what we did. Perhaps we freed her from the clutches of Kevin, but that hadn't extended to other men. She is still held captive in this lifestyle, too desperate to survive to treat herself with the respect she deserves. Respect isn't what kept you from starving. It didn't give you a warm place to sleep. She was resigned to this life in which she'd accept abuse from men who'd take from her more than what they paid for. It was the only way she could exist day after day without fading into oblivion.

With my arms crossed, braced against the cold, I jog across the street toward her. As I approach, she looks to her left then to her right, looking for whoever it is I've come to talk to. I suspect she had never been approached by someone like me before. She'd grown accustomed to being overlooked.

"It isn't much, but it should cover the cost of a cheap hotel room for a couple nights and a hot meal," I say gently and hold a small bundle of bills- all that I have- out to her in offering. She eyes it warily at first before slowly reaching up to take it. Her fingers shake as she tries to count out the money and she seems momentarily puzzled at the number she comes up with. She thinks I've accidentally given her too much.

Stunned, she tucks the money into her bra before reaching out and stroking my arm, "your place?"

"I'm not buying you," I tell her, pulling out of her reach so I can shrug off my coat. I slip it on over her bare shoulders and she reflexively pushes her arms through the sleeves. I zip it up carefully all the way to her throat and I fix the collar so it protects her neck from the biting wind. "Tomorrow morning, go to the lobby of Wayne Tower and tell the receptionist Bruce Wayne sent you. There'll be a job waiting for you, okay?"

Knowing the richest man in Gotham City on a personal level has its perks. Even as complicated as our non-relationship currently stands, he won't object to me using his business and money to help someone in need.

"Are you serious?" she doesn't want to believe it until she knows it to be true. She doesn't want to be played the fool. Not with something this big.

"Very. They'll take good care of you there," I assure her with a soft smile and I gently wipe away her smeared lipstick with my thumb. Her face seems to come alive as my words settle in, a new fire sparking behind her eyes and she sheds overjoyed tears.

I hail her a cab for a nearby hotel and she watches me from the back seat, her face pressed close to the rear windshield so she can see me still standing there in the dark. The cold makes the hairs on my arms stand upright, goose bumps settling over my skin and I shudder against an aggressive gust of wind. But I don't mind it at all, knowing my coat is helping keep someone else warm. Someone that deserves and needs it far more than I do.

After everything, the fifty steps backwards suddenly only feels like thirty. And that, I realise, means more than I could have ever anticipated.

Tonight has been the first time in which I felt as though I made a difference. And I did it not as Batman, nor as Catwoman, but as Selina Kyle. Suddenly, I don't think the gun hidden beneath my mattress will feel so heavy anymore.

I have no objections to using it.

I appreciate Wayne Manor now. More than I ever did for these past few months. It's still horrendously excessive and unnecessarily rich, but seeing it tonight for what I know will be the last time is allowing me to see it as being so much more. It has sheltered me after I lost my own home. In a way, I have become a part of its history. I find that to be of some comfort. Like for a short time I actually mattered somewhere. I mattered to people here, and they mattered to me.

"Where were you?" Dick asks from the doorway of his bedroom as I walk by towards my own room. He raises an eyebrow, sceptical. Concerned.

"Just went for a walk," I assure him quietly, not pausing to speak to him. I doubt he wishes to ever stop and talk to me anymore. At least not carelessly; the way we used to. Those days have long since passed us.

"Damian woke up," he tells me gently, his hands fiddling with the hem of his pyjama shirt. "He was asking for you… it's hard to… we aren't sure how much we should tell him. We didn't know what you would and wouldn't want him to know about what happened. Or why."

"Everything. He has the right to know all of it," I say, "even why I didn't save him sooner."

"Are you sure? He may not respond well…"

"I'm sure. I think both Bruce and I have had enough secrets," I smile sadly, "nothing good has ever come of it." He returns the sad smile and pushes himself off the doorframe, taking a hesitant step forwards.

"Bruce isn't speaking to anyone. He hasn't left Damian's side and Alfred can't convince him to eat. Maybe he'll respond to you. Or at the very least he might listen. Reckon you could do that for me?"

"For you? Anything," I reach up to him and softly caress his cheek, trying one last time to make him blush from my playful flirt. His cheeks turn the faintest tinge of pink and he laughs, lifting me up into a tight hug. My own cheeks flush a glorious red as he sweeps me from my feet.

"I've learned how to play that game with you," he grins when he finally sets me back down. "Look, about everything that happened-"

"You mean everything I did, right?"

"Not just you. I've made mistakes too. The wrong decisions. I've hurt people, whether it be at my hands or by letting them fall into the line of fire. In the end, I've learned that there's no good in holding onto it. If you do, you'll end up… well, you'll end up like Bruce. You know?"

"We spend our nights leaping from rooftops and kicking ass while wearing masks. We already are like Bruce," I point out.

"You aren't wrong," he agrees with a subtle quirk of his lip. "Difference is, we smile while we do it. That's important."

I realise then that I don't remember smiling even once after I became Batman. Each journey outside the cave felt so incredibly focused and dutiful. Each night in which I took to the streets unaccompanied I recall having the distinct need to find myself. It never mattered what question affronted the forefront of my mind at the time, the hunt for an answer kept me desperately occupied. So much so that I forgot to smile.

As flawed as Catwoman is, nobody can deny that she never seems to lack in excitement and genuine thrill. Being her was to feel free. Wind in your hair and sand between your toes levels of free. Something which, ironically, money can't buy. You can only take it or leave it.

"It is important," I muse upon the fact and he tilts his head a little to one side, an eyebrow raised as he watches me find my revelation. I'm well on the way to my resolution. "I'm going to go talk to Bruce. You have a good night, sweetheart."

This is as good a night as any to say my farewells.

He nods once and turns back into his room, shutting his door behind him with a quiet click. Here, he is home. I'm so contented to know he will always have that, even if he doesn't always believe it.

I turn back the way I came and tentatively knock on Damian's door. When I don't hear any kind of response I turn the handle and walk in without invitation. The boy rests under the covers of his bed, his head turned to the side and his mouth slightly agape as he peacefully sleeps. His father sits by his side, hands clasped between his knees and his eyes downcast. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was praying. But I do know him, and I know he isn't a man of faith; he doesn't implore an entity for the repair of his injured child. Instead he has hope that Damian's strength will heal him the way it always has before.

Only as I draw nearer to the silent man do I see that he isn't lost the way Dick's description would suggest. He is very much where he means to be: with his son. For once he stops and allows the world to keep moving without him, the way he had never been able to before whenever he was with me. I don't resent him for that, at least not now.

Like the woman in the pink dress that better deserved the warmth of my coat, Damian is most worthy of Bruce's affection.

"Richard's worried about you," I start, sitting at the end of Damian's bed, "so I can only imagine just how manic Alfred is. Am I right in assuming he comes to you on the hour with a fresh cooked meal? Does he threaten to force feed it to you? Because I wouldn't put it past him to try."

He is silent. Unmoving. Focused and thoughtful.

"Now I don't believe his frail façade for even a second," I continue, "I think that man is masking some serious muscle. Enough to take you on if you aren't careful. Do you really think all this is worth the risk? The shame of being beaten by an old man?"

He glances in my direction, unamused. Silent.

"Now I'll say I love him. Because I do, well and truly. But don't for a second think that has made me immune to his intimidation. The way he stands over you holding a sandwich…"I force a shudder. "Terrifying. Worse still when he brings me coffee. The nightmares I get from it; absolutely horrifying."

He still hasn't said a word. I sigh, heavily.

"You're not going to dob me in are you, Bruce? We're allies you and me. It's us against all the scary butlers of the world, right?"

"We're allies now?" Finally, he speaks.

"On and off," I smile, "I guess an alliance isn't real unless it's complicated."

"We're beyond complicated by this point, don't you think? You have been dressing up as me for months, after all."

"I believe that was your idea, not mine," I chuckle lightly.

"You seem strangely at ease," he acknowledges the sudden change, confused.

"That's because I am. I've had a lot of time to think and I've decided that this is the end."

"Of?"

"This. Me being you. You're up on your feet again and I think it's time you take back the reins of your own life. You need to own what you did instead of repressing it."

He looks at me properly now, his blue eyes searing into my green ones. "What about Matthew?"

"He isn't Batman's burden to bear, he's mine," I say, careful as to how I phrase my words. He'll understand that my intentions are inarguable.

"Am I supposed to just somehow be okay with this?" he asks, frustrated.

"Well no. But I never asked you to be," I point out. He tenses his jaw. "Also from tomorrow onwards you'll have a prostitute working for Wayne Enterprises. I figure I should give you the heads up."

"The heads up is appreciated. It would have been embarrassing if she showed up for a non-existent job." He seems utterly unsurprised. Totally comfortable with the fact that I hired a completely inexperienced woman for his multibillion dollar corporation. It isn't as if the generosity comes as a sacrifice to his business or his wealth. "That was nice of you. Giving a job to someone in need."

"Even though it wasn't my job to give?"

"That doesn't bother me. Your inclination to help those in poverty has always been admirable. If not a little inconsistent. And sometimes with questionable means."

"I don't know what you're talking about; questionable means." I avert my eyes to the floor, suddenly fascinated by the carpet.

"You know… Damian told me that Oracle decrypted the surveillance footage from the burglary," he says, casting me a sidelong look with a hopeless shake of his head. But is that the slightest smile I see pulling at the corners of his lips? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? "There's just no changing you, is there? I've certainly exhausted myself trying."

"How long has he known?" I'm baffled that the boy would learn of my blatant lie and involvement in a crime and not say or do anything in response. Particularly after the man's body was found and I was quick to suggest we leave it for Gordon to handle on his own.

Had he, after all this time, decided that some people were worthy of forgiveness no matter their wrongdoings?

"A few weeks if not more," Bruce says with a furrowed brow. He takes a second to contemplate the truth of his words, trying to find the profound motivations of his son. I think he hasn't yet come to really understand his offspring. "It… interests me. Why he didn't say anything sooner."

"Well, I've got him driving on his own and telling bad jokes. Hell, he even smiles sometimes now. I guess I'm a bad influence." I shrug my shoulders with a _'what-can-you-do?'_ nonchalance.

"I shouldn't have expected anything less," he reaches a hand out towards mine and tentatively touches my fingers. "You have that effect on people. Myself included." I entwine my fingers with his, returning the gesture warmly.

After all, this is likely my last chance.

"Please don't do it. That's all I'm going to say," he sighs and gives my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. My arm stays there, still outstretched towards him, suddenly exposed.

He stands, smoothing out the creases in his shirt as he stalls, waiting desperately for me to change my mind. It infuriates me how he teases my emotions like that, treating me with the smallest gesture of affection and then retracting it all too soon. I fall for it every time. In the end, I always fall for him; just to find he isn't there to catch me.

"I'd like to say good bye to Damian," I grind my teeth a little, pursing my lips to keep myself from giving some kind of biting remark. There's little use in us fighting again, the same war waging each time we open our mouths. It's become tedious.

Bruce nods solemnly and leaves, presumably into Alfred's paternal clutches where he'll surely remain prisoner until he gives in and agrees to eat something. I take the chair he vacated, seating myself at Damian's side. The boy is still sleeping soundly, drugged to the limit with pain killers. It's likely he won't be able to leave this bed for the next few weeks or even months and I know it'll bore him to tears. Nothing could ever keep him from wanting to fight out there, whether it be at Batman's side or on his own. Like his father, he doesn't break easily.

"Well this is the end, kid," I run my fingers through his hair, gently brushing a few wayward strands from his face. Had he been awake, he'd slap my hand away and push his hair back to how it was. Stubborn as always. "You said from the start I wasn't cut out for this, and you couldn't have been more right. After tonight, who knows where I'll end up. Your dad has let me off many times before, but I don't think this is going to be one of those times. This is too big."

What would he say if he was awake? Would he roll his eyes at me and mutter _'I told you so'_ under his breath? Or would he plead with me the way Bruce had? Imploring me to stop before I even begin? Months ago I think I would have known the answer; but now it's impossible to know for sure. As it turns out, Joker was right: Robin really is full of surprises.

"If you ever find yourself bored, you could always come visit me in Blackgate, yeah? Surely there are some card games we could play with a wall of glass between us," I can't keep the sadness from my voice. "It's not my traditional idea of fun, but we could make it work. Really, any chance of getting to see you would make the time bearable. Bring Richard with you, if you can convince him to go. Alfred too."

Damian sighs heavily in his sleep, shifting slightly beneath the covers and he nestles his head deeper into his pillow.

"I know this isn't the bedside visit you asked for but it's the only one I've got. They'll tell you I came, and they'll tell you why I left. I just hope you have it in you to forgive me one last time," I lean forward and kiss his forehead once before standing, "if you can't though, I'll understand. Just trust that I'm sorry."

I dim the lights in his room and leave his door marginally ajar, the way a mother might tuck their child in to sleep at night so they'll feel protected from the monsters under their bed. Were he to wake, he'd be able to see the horrors that hide in the dark, and he'll know the way to safety if he sees them lurking. It's the kind of reassurance that was lacking in my childhood and so I think I'm doing it now more for my benefit than his.

Strangely, it helps.


	21. Chapter 21

As I descend the stairs, voices float from the dining room into the hallway, becoming clearer as I approach.

"Two more bites and then you can have dessert," Alfred mutters humourlessly. I peek around the doorway and see him sitting across from Bruce, his elbow on the table with his chin rested heavily on one hand. His eyes are tired, his expression one of exhaustion and tedium.

"I'm not a child anymore, Alfred," Bruce sighs but then takes the two bites before putting his fork down and pushing his plate away. Then he sits more upright, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders in anticipation.

Alfred wordlessly gets up and disappears into the kitchen for a minute before returning with a slice of pie and a scoop of ice cream. He sets the plate down in front of Bruce (who eagerly digs in) and resumes his seat. "You're making a mess. Will you require a bib, Master Bruce?"

"The sarcasm is a little salty," Bruce mumbles with his mouth full, struggling to stop the crumbs falling from his lips.

"Did I sound like I was being sarcastic? You say you aren't a child but you certainly still eat like one. But I suppose I should just count my blessings that you're eating anything at all."

"I wasn't hungry before," Bruce shrugs.

"You haven't been hungry in months. It's been a tiresome effort watching all that food go to waste. Really, Bruce, sometimes it's like you're _trying_ to hurt me."

"I'd never do that."

"I know. But you seem to care very little about doing it all the same. I've served you since you were born but for the last few months it has actually started to feel like work. I think it's prematurely aging me. Don't I look older?"

"You don't look a day over fifty."

"Don't try to flatter me. I know when you don't mean it."

"I just don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to just say what I want to hear. I want you so say what you mean. I just hope that I'll like whatever that is." Alfred leans forward in his seat, watching Bruce imploringly.

"I need to take better care of myself," Bruce says after a minute or so of silence, "I need to do that so you don't have to. I've been unfair to you."

"And?"

"And to everyone else. I haven't made this easy on anyone." Bruce weakly stabs at the remainder of his pie with his fork, mushing the crumbs and the melted ice cream together. "I shut Dick and Damian out when they needed me most, I abused your generosity, and I placed too much responsibility on Selina's shoulders and then yelled at her for buckling beneath it."

"I don't think she buckled. She just didn't perform the way you wanted her to," Alfred corrects him. "You've always been critical of your allies. Maybe that's why you have so few friends."

Bruce laughs darkly. "Don't sugar coat it for me."

"I'm just being frank with you, Master Bruce. You hit the nail on the head when you said you need to take better care of yourself. And that involves attending to your emotional needs. You need to keep your friends close to you rather than driving them away."

Bruce pushes the pie away, unfinished, his appetite apparently lost. "You think I pushed Selina away?"

"You don't think so?" Alfred quirks an eyebrow.

The younger man hesitates, delaying his answer because he doesn't know whether to lie or to admit the truth. He had been toying with me for years, taking me and leaving me whenever it suited him. By dragging me into the bat family, he had only furthered the distance between us.

"I hate myself for being so drawn to her," he confesses finally, "I think that's why I'm always so hard on her. Why I condemn her so brutally."

"So you admit that you _are_ drawn to her?" Alfred smiles slightly.

"You've known for years, Alfred. Don't pretend you haven't." Bruce refuses to look up at the older man. Is that embarrassment that he is trying to hide?

"Why is liking her an issue?"

"She's decided to kill him, Alfred," Bruce glares at the table bitterly, his face starting to redden. "It's one thing for us to have different tastes in music or conflicting opinions on politics, but it's something else altogether when she isn't opposed to murder and I am. How do you move past that?"

Alfred grimaces and opens his mouth, closes it, and wrings his hands together in silence. He doesn't have the appropriate response to that question, because he too knows that this is just too big. My decision is too drastic even for him to get behind.

"It isn't as if she's without reason," he announces finally. It does nothing to assist Bruce in his moral dilemma.

"I know that. She thinks I don't understand; but I do. All too well. But I can't get through to her… whenever I try, I just sort of-"

"Yell? Lecture? Criticize?"

"You know me so well," Bruce smiles sadly and shakes his head dejectedly. "As if I have any right to after what I did."

"The death of those children is not your fault, Master Bruce," Alfred is quick to reassure, trying to comfort the younger man. It is a futile effort.

"Yes it is. For all this time I've been searching for a way to believe otherwise but that is the painful truth of it. I was reckless and irrational and innocent people died. It's a fact I have to live with and I have to turn it into something that's even remotely good. I need to go back out there and save whoever I can… Wasn't that the point of all this?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Selina reminded me of that. Damian got me back on my feet but she's the reason that I'm still standing."

"I'm sure if she were to hear that it would mean a great deal," Alfred says knowingly and I swear he glances in my direction, as if he knows I'm lingering just beyond the doorway. Instinctively, I back away where I can no longer be seen but I consequently can no longer see them either.

"There's still a part of me that hopes she'll make the right decision. I can't make it for her. It was foolish of me to even try," Bruce says.

"You never know, Master Bruce, she may surprise you." I can hear the smile in Alfred's voice and I decide that I've heard enough.

I go back upstairs and take the gun from under my mattress and I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans, covering the handle with my shirt. If I don't act tonight, then I never will. And that would be a sacrifice that I and this city will never come back from.

"The security guards have been eliminated. You're free to enter the building," Jason says into my earpiece. It had only been five minutes since he had told me he was _"going in"_. To him this venture was like a walk in the park.

"Eliminated?" I question, approaching the back door.

"Knocked unconscious," he emphasises, "what do you take me for? Some kind of animal?"

"Well you know what they say; _'when the shoe fits'_." I pick the lock of the door but don't open it just yet. I haven't any doubt that an alarm will activate upon detecting motion.

"You're welcome," Jason mutters indignantly.

"You got me to the door. That's it. Do you really think that is worthy of a thank you?"

"You're the one that asked for my help. I helped. Out of the pure kindness of my heart. I think a thank you is the least I could ask for."

"Do manners really mean that much to you?" I ask incredulously. "I suddenly feel like I'm talking to a stranger. It's disconcerting to say the least."

"You're stalling," he complains. He isn't wrong.

"Hey, you're the one that wanted to stop for a chit chat," I argue, searching for the power source of the intruder alarm. It doesn't take long to find and I crack the box open, using my night vision goggles to inspect the wires. I gnaw my lip in concentration as I cut through the appropriate wires, silently deactivating the alarm. I have been doing this since I was a teenager. After a while the thrill of it fades.

"Are you inside yet?"

"Patience is a virtue," I sing.

"You're the one that keeps insisting I have no virtues," he points out, sighing heavily. He sounds bored. "Why did you call me out here?"

"For back up. If I need to make a quick getaway, I'll only have to run faster than you." I crack open the door and peek inside to the dark room.

"I could just leave now, you know," he warns, exasperated.

"You could but you won't. You're too invested."

"I'll be waiting outside," he mumbles timidly, too ashamed to admit aloud that I have him pegged exactly where I want him. He likes to think of himself as a lone wolf and the rest of us as sheep he can herd or hunt however he pleases. So I can only imagine just how much it aggrieves him whenever I refuse to submit to his dominance.

I slip the gun free from my waistband and switch the safety off, levelling my aim using both hands but still the barrel sways as my fingers tremor nervously. I grip the weapon tighter, trying desperately to steady myself as I creep through the living room.

The space is near bare, bigger than the furniture filling it needs it to be. His couch faces a wall adorned only by a stuffed moose head, his bookshelves-upon inspection-are littered with encyclopaedias and non-fiction texts from science and mathematics and history. It shouldn't come as such a surprise that he is well read; assuming he has in fact read any of these books rather than storing them here for appearances sake. Something tells me that isn't the case. The way the room has been arranged has everything pointing at the same wall, closing itself off from the rest of the house and suggesting that he doesn't often have guests over.

He doesn't strike me as the sort of person that feels any obligation to entertain his peers. To him, people are there to serve his every need, and aren't there to socialise. I'm sure conversations bore him. The everyday chit chat between one person to the next a tedious exercise in which he'd rather not participate.

Unless it would prove useful to him of course.

Not to say he can't be charming when he needs to be. Because charisma somehow comes to him like a natural born talent. But I've learned to see beyond that. Over time, something about his well-spoken speeches and his perfectly phrased one on one interactions become unsettling to the ears. Eventually I figured out the problem: it all sounds too practiced. Convincingly faked to bury how he loathes talking to anyone and everyone. He sees no point in it. All these years of buying his way through life and leaving his peers to threaten for him has allowed him to slither into this antisocial sanctuary he has built for himself. This place with its white walls and high ceilings and empty spaces like a hollow shell of somebody who finds little pleasure in life aside from ending one.

This is the home of a man who surrounds himself with extravagance but enjoys it only when he pictures it dripping in blood.

The thought sends a shiver up my spine and I take each step up the staircase as though afraid I might step in something. Perhaps the smattering of brains or a pureed kidney? The pulverised remains of a half-eaten heart? My imagination runs wild with all the sinister yet implausible ideas. I can almost see it in the dark, the decapitated bodies of his victims lying lifelessly on the stairs, their eyes open and clouded as they stare thoughtlessly at me. Their icy fingers stiffly pointing accusingly at me as if I were deserving of the blame. Perhaps they would still be alive had I acted upon my revenge sooner?

I have to stop and steady myself against the handrail, one hand dropping away from the gun to grasp onto the banister for dear life; the chemical smell in the air first turning horrid like rotting flesh and then, worse still, like alcohol. My head swims, disoriented, and for a moment I can't determine the way I'm going from the way I came. Confused, I press two fingers to my ear piece, thinking that Jason must know what is happening. But there's no sound.

"Jason?" My voice cracks, my throat dry as if all the moisture has evaporated from my mouth.

There's still nothing except for a faint buzz but that could be coming from anywhere. I turn my head from one way to the next and back again, the sound travelling inconsistently with it which implies that it too is moving. But the evidence would suggest otherwise. The bodies haven't shifted from where they first fell and the room is still and quiet: undisturbed.

 _There weren't any bodies when I arrived_ , I think perplexedly, my mouth becoming slack as I near faint from the sudden heat in the room. This feels both awfully familiar and unnervingly foreign all at once. It's as if I am once again under the effects of Scarecrow's toxin, but this time I am not entirely seeing my own fears. Rather, I am seeing the fears that are being forcefully instilled within me. Amongst all these bodies, _hers_ is absent. The odour of alcohol is only faint in the air, or rather, in my own head; the smell faded like an afterthought or just tied to an emotion rather than a memory. I imagine, if I was to inspect the bathroom, the bathtub would be empty of my mother or her blood. Instead I might find unidentifiable body parts belonging to unidentifiable (probably non-existent) people.

I just have to tie myself to something real. Something of which I had grown accustomed. I lay the gun flat on my open palm, using the weight of it to pull my sanity back into focus. The gun is heavy and very real. Jason gave me this gun: that was real. I've held this gun each night as I waited fretfully for it to feel as if it fit in my hand: That was real. Real because I know it never, despite my efforts, felt like it belonged.

Concentrating on the gun, I manage to make it to the top of the stairs and I exhale with unsteady relief. I've overcome nothing compared to the challenges yet to come.

"I'm not hearing gun shots. Should I be concerned?" Jason asks in my ear.

"Huh?" I jump, startled.

"I've been trying to talk to you for the last ten minutes. Did you stop to read a magazine or something?"

"Fear toxin," I explain quietly.

"Oh, so that's all." I can practically hear him rolling his eyes impatiently.

"You're welcome to come inside and get a taste of it if you want. That is if you don't mind seeing dead bodies."

"My fears aren't that generic. But thanks for thinking so little of me."

"That's the thing, I'm not afraid of nameless corpses either," I tell him, now in a whisper as I approach the bedroom. "Something is… different."

"You aren't wrong." The bedroom door is suddenly flung open and I am knocked off my feet, Matthew standing over me and looking down, his nose wrinkling slightly and his lips puckered in disgust. For a second I think he may actually try to squash me like a bug beneath his foot. "You shouldn't have come here, Selina."


	22. Chapter 22

Before I can raise my gun, he steps down on my wrist, forcing my hand to open and he kicks the weapon from my reach with a bored sigh. He couldn't have been expecting me; not after all this time. The toxin must have affected me more than I thought, making each footstep land heavier on the stairs and my gentle call for Jason a desperate cry. How else could he have known? Unless he had been forewarned by an interested party? But nobody except Jason knew of my mission tonight. I refuse to believe that he, even with all his questionable ethics and practices, would sell me out to someone as barbaric as The Barbarian.

Matthew stands there, unashamed and at ease in his pyjamas, his hair swept back as though he had in fact been asleep perhaps just a mere ten minutes prior.

He's too confident. And that frightens me.

Had he been startled or at least uncomfortable I wouldn't feel as if I have lost before I've even tried. Aside from his apparent boredom, he appears to be only a touch disgruntled: a little inconvenienced by my late night visit wielding a gun intended to kill him. But to him a minor inconvenience goes a long way and he lashes out, kicking me squarely in the ribs. I roll over, holding my side in a sudden snare of agony.

Matthew reaches down and lifts me like a ragdoll, setting me down on my feet but keeping one hand tightly gripped on the scruff of my neck and my shoulders instinctively tense beneath his massive hand. I'd forgotten just how large he was. All broad shoulders and thick biceps: a towering mass of muscle. If he wanted, he could easily snap my neck in one quick motion, exerting the same effort required to open a jar of pickles or to pop the cork on a bottle of champagne. Had I nothing worth offering, I _would_ be dead.

"You've made a habit of coming uninvited and taking my toys, haven't you?" He snarls, becoming aggravated as I twist away from his grasp, ducking beneath his arm and raising my fists. "First, you sell all my merchandise. Then you make an unwelcome appearance at the Mirror House auction and interrupt the entire evening. And now you break into my home with the intention to take my life too."

"Doesn't feel good being on the receiving end, does it?!" I spit, baring my teeth furiously and I swing a fist, punching him squarely in the nose. He isn't even knocked back a step and he brings his fingers to his nose and tentatively dabs at the blood that's now oozing from his nostril. He's still for a moment, inspecting the dark red stain on his fingertips with a strange curiosity. Had nobody ever made him bleed before?

"Interesting," he murmurs vaguely. It wasn't the response I expected. I swing my other fist but this time he catches my hand, pulling me against him and he twists my arm behind my back. "Let's make a business deal of sorts. Maybe then you'll get out of here, alive."

"I've made some questionable deals in the past, but even I have limits. I have standards. Some dignity."

"Do you though?" With my back against his chest I can feel him as he breathes evenly; resistant and fearless. His breath passes his parted lips, uncomfortably warm against my ear as he leans his head towards my shoulder. He takes the earpiece out and crushes it easily in his hand, effectively cutting me off from Jason. He whispers, "I sense you've never possessed even an ounce of dignity. If you found some now, you wouldn't know what to do with it."

"Should I be offended?"

"Not at all," he breathes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin rippling with an uneasy shudder that claws its way from the base of my spine to the back of my head. "On the contrary; I could really use someone like you."

He releases my arm and propels me forward so suddenly that I hit the floor with a surprised exhale. The skin of my hands sting as my palms are immediately rubbed raw from the forceful impact against the floorboards. As I stand, bloody hand prints smear the floor like some kind of bizarre finger-painting.

"That Scarecrow toxin from the auction was confiscated by the police before I could get my hands on it. Ever since James Gordon was granted the position of Commissioner, fewer corrupt officers still work on the force. It's been bad on business and it's only getting worse. There are fewer hands I can trust; only a select few I can actively buy or threaten. Which means I haven't been able to reclaim what is rightfully mine."

"What good is the toxin to you? Aside from your flawed security system."

"There are many uses for it. More than even its creator has come to understand. For instance, with only a few, minor adjustments, the toxin can procure some very fascinating effects. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"That was a rhetorical question," I huff and wipe my tingling hands onto my jeans, staining them with my blood.

"You catch on quick," he says humourlessly and forces me into walking ahead of him into his bedroom. I have no choice but to leave the gun on the floor where he had kicked it.

"I don't think there's anything you can show me in here that I haven't already seen before. If anything you'll only leave me vastly disappointed."

He ignores me, unimpressed, and opens one of those rich people safes that they all keep hidden behind a hideous painting. It works as a beacon that just screams: _valuables hidden here!_ They hardly seem a challenge now that I know exactly where to look first. With his back to me I cast my eyes fleetingly around the room. Like the rest of his house, the room is next to bare, only containing a king size bed, the atrocious painting and a floor lamp. It too suggests that he doesn't entertain people here. That is until I came along. How could a girl get so lucky?

"Dr Crane is a difficult man. Or creature. Whatever he is. These days it's very hard to tell."

"Yeah, that dodgy haircut has made him look like an entirely different person," I joke flatly. He shoots me an irritated scowl, silently ordering me to shut up.

"He can't be bought. And his experiments have left him incapable of feeling fear, so he cannot be threatened. Were I to kill him, all his secrets and incredible intellect would die with him. There would eventually come a time when my resources would run dry and my imbecilic team would never successfully replicate his work. So I was left with little choice but to use the people around him."

I think hard and fast, my mind rattled at the very idea that Matthew has always been more involved than what myself or Robin could ever deduce. How could he slip so seamlessly between the cracks like that?

"Those two guards from Arkham proved to be quite resourceful and managed to learn the location of Scarecrows stashes of fear toxin. However, they double crossed me, helping him escape from the asylum which put me in a very dangerous position. But I needn't had worried-"

"Because the truth died with those guards and Scarecrow was recaptured and sent back to Arkham," I finish for him. He blinks purposely, genuinely stunned at how I complete him. The look sickens me. "What part did Kevin Driver play in all this?"

He raises an eyebrow, "I'm interested to know how you know about that imbecile. But he didn't play any part in the grand scheme of things. He provided prostitutes for my clients. Nothing more, nothing less."

I cautiously take a step backwards when he holds up a syringe that contains a cloudy liquid in a nauseating shade of orange like that of a rotting pumpkin. It seems to move on its own, small bubbles swirling inside the barrel of the syringe as if it is gently simmering over a low heat. This must be Scarecrow's fear toxin in a liquid form. Matthew sees my concern and he smiles gently before guiding the needle to his own arm and I wince as he injects the toxin into his own veins.

"This was a failed experiment of Doctor Crane's. Or at least that's what he thought. In reality, his immunity to his own toxins blinded him to his own genius," Matthew explains smoothly, setting the empty syringe down onto his bed. "By tweaking the chemical balances and absorbing it into your own bloodstream, you can feel someone else's fear. Actually feel it as if you're psychically holding something in your hands."

"Sounds more like a burden than anything," I swallow firmly.

"It would be if you don't have the stomach for it," he allows with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It gives me a window right into your soul, Selina. I can see what you see, feel what you feel, and that gives me ultimate power over you. You stand here with a clear mind, completely present in the world as I inflict whatever torture I so please. And I know every single one of your trigger points."

"I'm still not all that impressed to be completely honest with you," I wrinkle my nose, pretending to refrain from yawning as if I couldn't be closer to incapacitating boredom than I am right now. "Seems unreliable and unnecessarily convoluted. Frankly, my dear, it sounds like a load of bullshit."

He quirks his head to the side slightly, his eyes squinting as if trying to see through a foggy window or looking toward something in the distance against the harsh sun. I seem to have somehow baffled him again which is a feat in itself. Never has anyone interested him enough to evoke such a profound and intense intrigue. His confused stare implies that for the first time he actually wishes to make sense of somebody. He wants to unravel my brains and piece it back together to understand how my mind works. I'm afraid that if I stick around long enough, he may do just that. Literally.

"You act differently to everyone else. Though I can't quite put my finger on how," he tells me, "I think it may have something to do with how you lie to tell the truth. It's less about what you say and more about how you say it. I know you, Selina, and I know you have mastered the art of deception. So why do you lie so everybody knows that you're lying? It must be because you want everyone to hear your cry for help without actually having to cry."

"You couldn't be further from the truth." I roll my eyes, slowly edging backwards towards the open door.

"That's it there. A shining example of the point I was making. You play off my words as if we're the most kindred of spirits. It's… unusual. I'm not sure that I like it."

"I'm sure you don't, Matthew. Relating to anybody on any level must be jarring," I mutter.

"Perhaps it is," he agrees, "and that frightens you, doesn't it?"

"I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean by that."

"It scares you how I'm so unlike anything you've seen before. In the past, you've always recognised the humanity in people, or at least where it begins and where it ends. But all you see when you look at me is an empty shell… Really, I don't agree. But I'm flattered nonetheless."

"That isn't something to be proud of," I spit, abruptly furious.

I half expected him to excuse his wrongdoings, claiming ignorance and naivety. To feel some kind of entitlement to a flaw worthy of my sympathy. There had always been a repressed part of me that hoped he would break when faced with the barrel of a gun, dropping to his knees and begging for mercy. I'd foolishly wished he weren't this heartless creature but rather a man corrupted by the shattered pieces of the heart that still fights to beat within his chest.

I'd come here still wanting the other shoe to drop so I could move on without spilling blood. His shameless apathy makes this harder instead of easier. But deep down, I knew I never should have expected anything less. My hope exists only to betray me.

"Isn't it?" he asks curiously. "Your heart is racing. Your anger is feeding your fear. I can feel it pulsing through my veins… but you aren't afraid of dying. You're afraid you can't kill me."

I can feel my face redden, heat travelling up my neck into my cheeks and my breathing becomes akin to hysteric, each inhale short and every exhale manic. Adrenaline sweeps over my body and leaves me feeling nauseous and unstable, like I'm walking across a rickety bridge without handrails to hold onto.

"No. It's more than that. You're afraid that you _won't_ kill me. That's the nightmare that's been invading your dreams each night, isn't it?"

"You have no idea," I seethe.

"I'm not done," he interrupts me, holding up a hand. "You're absolutely terrified of losing the ones you love."

"I don't love anybody. Not since you took her away from me."

"I beg to differ, Selina. There are people you love very much, but they don't reciprocate. You're not forgettable; you're despised. Worse, you're poisonous. That frightens you. Almost more than I do."

"You like to think so highly of yourself."

I snatch the empty syringe from his bed, bearing my teeth as I plunge it forcefully into his neck. He grabs for me and retaliates by lifting me easily from my feet and flinging me effortlessly across the room so I hit the wall and crack the plaster. Dizzy, I watch as he pulls the needle from his neck without even wincing and he tosses it aside before walking toward me, reaching down to grip the collar of my shirt and he hoists me up.

"This is exactly what I wanted. You aren't crippled by your fear, instead it is driving you to fight back. Scarecrow never appreciated or understood the beauty in spilling someone's blood rather than having them spill it themselves. He always preferred watching to participating."

My feet dangle inches from the ground and I grip his wrists tightly in my hands, simultaneously trying to loosen his grip and holding onto him for dear life so I don't fall. I can't decide which I would prefer. My nails dig into his skin but he barely flinches, instead twisting his fists more into the material of my shirt and lifting me higher from the floor. Still, it seems effortless, like I weigh no more than a feather, and I realise that time will not tire him for me. I can't afford to wait for him to exhaust himself beating me because I'll be dead before he even breaks a sweat.

He pulls me in closer, my knees knocking against his thighs and my elbows brushing against his forearms, and I clench my jaw as I bring my forehead firmly against his in a forceful head-butt. The sound of our skulls colliding together is like a stone against a boulder and the impact disorients me for a moment before I think to repeat the motion, this time against his nose, effectively breaking it with a hollow crack. Once again he throws me across the room but this time I manage to brace myself and I roll into a crouched position furthest from the door.

Matthew steadily wipes the blood from his nose with his sleeve but it continues to gush from his nostrils, the bridge of his nose already turning black and blue with a hideous bruise. It looks painful, but he appears merely annoyed; angry at most. If anything, I'm suffering worse than him with my raging headache and the horrendous pain radiating along my spine from where I broke the plaster with my back.

We stand there, eyeing each other from opposite ends of the room. Looking into those flat eyes, I am reminded of the Joker. I think how, despite all that monster had done, he lives and breathes and freely roams Gotham wreaking havoc and committing insane acts of cruel ultra-sanity. He came into existence _because_ of Batman and continues to exist _for_ Batman, and yet Bruce will never allow himself to kill his one true nemesis. Regardless of what good his death would mean for this deranged city. I could never, despite his efforts, understand Bruce's incorruptible restraint. I think of his explanation of there never being an end to his murderous means. How killing one malevolent man would eventually lead to another and then another. Bruce told me how this turmoil would never end, instead it would only intensify, leaving him torturously lost, consumed by an unquenchable rage.

And I suddenly realise that is exactly what happened to Jason.

He kills those he deems worthy of a death penalty. At first I imagine he made each kill quick, pulling a gun on a criminal as he slept or while his back was turned. But eventually it wasn't enough. These felons were dying almost peacefully, alive one second and dead the next without having those short few moments to realise it's even happening. Jason's rage grew and he surely began to take it out on his targets, making each kill slower and more personal until eventually he would spend hours at a time torturing a man before cutting him apart piece by piece and leaving them to die slowly and in excruciating pain.

I think he didn't take it personally at first. Each target was a run of the mill scumbag whom he felt would never even wish to redeem themselves. It was a job. One he felt Batman was failing to do as it required. Then the more he killed, the more personal it felt. As if each man or woman took something from him. Something he couldn't do without and something they could never possibly give back. They took a piece of the sanity Joker rattled loose, maybe? But it more likely felt as if they took an important piece of Gotham. The city in which he started with nothing, gained everything and lost it all again at the hands of a psychopathic clown. Gotham is his home and these criminals are keeping her from being great the way he had always imagined it. The ideal city that Bruce had often described to him. So what more could he do to save this utopia than to kill whoever threatened it?

I see that he is no better off for it. He never found peace, and it's likely that he never will.

What could be said of me? Wouldn't I wish to kill Joker for the attempted murder of Damian if I could? All his goons that blindly follow their mad leader? Where would my journey for revenge end? More importantly, would it ever in fact end at all?

I falter. He sees my hesitation and then he suddenly charges like a raging bull. I twist away from him but at the last moment he grabs my wrist and pulls, popping my shoulder clean from its socket and it takes all my strength not to scream out in agony.

With his hand still wrapped tight around my limp wrist, I elbow him in the ribs with my free arm and kick back against his knee, causing it to buckle slightly and I exploit his imbalance and knock him to the ground. His landing shakes the floor, surprising us both but he recovers quicker than I can and he swings his leg around against my ankle, tripping me and I fall face first against the floorboards. My lip goes instantly numb at first but soon begins to throb, the blood dripping down my chin and filling my mouth. It tastes of rust and I spit crudely into his face.

If he were angry before, he's furious now; throwing his entire weight on top me and straddling my hips, his massive hands reaching for my throat. I may be agile and practiced now more than ever, but the simple fact of the matter is that he is both bigger and stronger than me. With his fingers clasping my throat and crushing down against my windpipe, my panicked kicks are futile and I slap hopelessly at his face with my one good hand as I try to scratch at his eyes and also push him away. Frustrated, he grips tighter and slams the back of my head against the floorboards twice, my already existing head ache now so sickeningly painful that I could throw up. In fact, I would retch if it weren't for Matthew's hands on my throat making it physically impossible.

With my arm laying uselessly at my side, my lip busted, a vertebrae in my spine most likely fractured, and my head throbbing with a very severe concussion, I start to wish not to survive, but rather just to die quickly. I know now I won't die with any dignity, perhaps Matthew was right in saying I didn't have any to begin with. If I had, I may feel worse for dying without it. Instead I just hope to die with little more pain that what I already feel.

However, I don't think Matthew will ever treat me with such mercy.

My whole body is resisting, my heart hammering desperately inside my chest and my lungs instinctively trying to expand. I can feel my red face becoming pale and bordering on blue as I ease slowly into unconsciousness. All noise becomes mute in my ears, the sounds of my own struggling fading into silence. Though I know the heels of my sneakers must still be thumping and squeaking against the floorboards with my ceasing kicks. My hand keeps trying to push Matthew away with its own will. My sight begins to blur, he and the ceiling behind him both becoming unfocused and I find the haziness aids me into an odd sense of ease, but also into a sudden burst of clarity.

I remember the bracelet on my lifeless wrist and I reach for it frantically, struggling to undo the clasp with my stiff fingers but I finally pull it free. My hand fumbles over the metal for a moment before I press it weakly against Matthew's face and he recoils, struck by the Taser I built into the jewellery only a few weeks before. His hands slip away from my throat and I sputter, dragging air into my lungs and I choke on it, my skin flushing red again at the sudden intake of oxygen. Tears fill my eyes and I roll weakly onto my side, my good hand trembling as I try and pull myself across the floor towards the door.

Matthew's hands seize my ankle and he yanks me back, the electric shock having weakened him and for the first time I see sincere pain in his expression, his brow slick with sweat and his teeth bared. He pants heavily, trying once more to pin me beneath him but I reach out and press the bracelet against his forearm and he immediately retracts his hand, his whole body quaking in a violent fit.

I continue to crawl, making it to the doorway before I find myself blocked by a pair of dark boots. They could belong to anyone, even one of Matthew's guards that may have recovered, but I still wrap my arm around their ankles and hug myself close to them, dreaming of a saviour. I jump as I hear a single gunshot and a heavy weight hits the floor behind me. My eyes shut instinctively and I grip the boots tighter in the crook of my arm, the smell of leather filling my nostrils as my breathing becomes hysteric. Blood and saliva leak from my busted lip, my aching throat won't allow me to swallow.

I whimper as my body is lifted into a strong set of arms and I am cradled against someone's warm chest and I cry into their shirt, surely smearing the material with my blood, sweat, and tears.

"You so owe me a 'thank you'," Jason mutters breathily and I sway slightly as he carries me from the room. "No, actually you owe me a dinner. Somewhere nice too, not just pizza or some cheap Chinese takeaway."

I don't respond. I don't think I could even if I tried. Instead I cry louder, my chest heaving in agony and irrepressible fear.

Jason isn't here to save me. My life was never a priority to him. Had he come too late, he wouldn't have felt any remorse in finding my corpse turning cold on Matthew's bedroom floor. He would have left my body behind: a mess for somebody else to clean up. He came when I called and stuck around because he had little faith in me. He suspected my inevitable failure and knew he would need to finish the job. The Barbarian was on Jason's list, and if I didn't kill him; he would. If anything, he sent me down this vengeful path as bait to weaken his prey. And I had done just that.

"Jason." Bruce's voice comes from behind us, his tone heavy with dread. He must think I'm dead; lifeless in Jason's arms.

"So you come to her rescue when he didn't come to mine," Jason replies sourly, turning to face his former father figure. "That hurts, Bruce."

I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch Bruce take two hesitant steps towards us, his eyes fixated on me and one hand reaching forward to touch my arm. Jason takes two steps back in response, silently warning Bruce to keep his distance.

"What did you do?" Bruce demands, standing tall in his Batman uniform, the long cape silhouetting him in the dim hallway.

"What she couldn't," Jason spits, "and what you wouldn't. The Barbarian is dead."

"That wasn't your decision to make."

"Then whose was it? Hers? Certainly wasn't yours."

Batman clenches his fists. My eyes finally flutter shut. "If she wanted him dead, he would be dead. She backed down."

"Chickened out. I know. Your corrupted influence no doubt," Jason jeers and I feel his arms tighten reflexively around me. I wince as he hoists me up more soundly against his chest.

"Hand her over," Bruce instructs, "then we can talk."

Surprisingly, I soon feel my weight shifting into a new set of arms and immediately I feel completely different. Safe. Protected. Very unlike the volatility of Jason's encirclement in which there was no way of knowing whether his intentions were to save me or kill me.

"I don't know what more there is to say, Bruce. I've said everything at least a hundred times before," Jason retorts stubbornly. Bruce turns and walks down the hall. I barely move in his stable arms. "That doesn't mean you can just turn your back on me, you coward." Jason snarls, infuriated.

"You're right. There isn't anything more to say," Bruce counters calmly, refusing to stop. When I open my eyes again, I see that we're descending the staircase. The bodies I hallucinated earlier are still there, and I realise that the toxin is still lingering in the air. Do Bruce and Jason see them too?

If they do, they don't react to it; possibly aware like I am that the illusions are not real. Even still, I avoid looking at them, turning my attention to Bruce and I gaze up at his chin. His lips are clenched into a firm line as he ignores Jason who proceeds to yell at his back. I can see how it pains him to disregard the boy he once treated like his own son. Their history is too tainted to ever revive what once was.

Bruce carries me out to the car, easing me gently into the backseat and his hand lingers in mine for a few seconds before he lets go and shuts the door. Before he does this, I see that Jason has stopped in the doorway of Matthew's house, his helmet now nestled under his arm and he's holding his gun in his other hand, as if he's contemplating using it. But he makes no effort to aim and instead looks lost as he watches Bruce.

I imagine he stands there still as Batman gets into the driver's seat, and together we drive off into the distance and I finally lose consciousness.


	23. Chapter 23

"Bullshit," Dick says confidently, peering over his cards with a raised brow and a twinkle in his eye.

I grin, "you sure about that, son?" I slowly reach out to turn over my three cards. "You can take it back now if you want."

"That would be breaking the rules," Damian interjects, shuffling his own hand of cards and not bothering to look up at us.

"Does that matter?" I ask, smirking at Dick who smiles back, rolling his eyes at his play-by-the-rules 'brother'.

"Of course it matters. Without the rules there is no point to the game. Anyone could win. Most likely the one person who deserves it the least."

"You mean me?"

"You're the one that insists on cheating," Damian points out sternly, shifting uncomfortably in his bed, wincing slightly at the effort.

"You say that only because I'm winning," I tease and gesture to my small hand of cards compared to the decks he and Dick have. When it comes to games of deceit, I always win. Though this is probably one of very few instances in which I should actually be proud of the talent. To say that's the case, however, is a lie in itself: truthfully, I've had fun over the years. Lying and stealing and running from the law isn't without its moments of glorious thrill and gratification.

Damian wrinkles his nose, refusing to dignify me with any kind of response. He inspects his own cards again, shaking his head as if they'd betrayed him somehow. He doesn't take too kindly to losing, especially to a simple card game.

"I still call Bullshit," Dick pipes up and kicks his feet up onto the edge of Damian's bed. Damian elbows them away with a disgusted protest. Dick ignores him, putting his feet up once more and crossing his ankles, completely at ease.

"You're gonna wish you didn't," I laugh and finally turn my cards over, showing the set of three sevens. I sit back against my pillow with a smug smile, crossing my good arm across my other arm in its sling.

"This game is bullshit," Dick's smile falls and he knits his brows together in annoyance. He too, isn't used to losing and he's finding that he doesn't like it very much at all.

"That it is. Literally," I agree and watch as Dick snatches up the entire discard pile. Now he can barely hold onto all his cards and he shuffles them roughly, trying to put together sets of numbers. He doesn't seem to realise that by doing so he is giving so much away.

"Why don't you quit while you're ahead?"

"Because I'm not ahead. I'm losing."

"Oh, I know. I'm trying to spare you some dignity. You'll only keep going downhill from here, sweetheart." I lay out the offer and wait patiently. Dick actually seems to ponder this for a few seconds before he sighs heavily and tosses his deck down onto the bed.

"I give up," he announces. Damian mimics him, just glad not to be the first to throw in the towel. Now nobody can point the finger and call him a quitter.

"Good boy," I reach out and pat the back of Dick's hand.

"Don't patronize me," he pretends to be insulted. But I know him well enough to see through his sour expression to the smile lingering right beneath the surface. "I should have taken the cheat when you offered it."

I nod my head a little and shrug my one good shoulder. It still hurts. "Yeah. Would've, could've, should've, darling. Better luck next time."

"I hate this game," Damian declares, casting a furious glare toward his discarded deck of cards. "We are never, ever playing it again. Not ever."

I tilt my head to the side, watching the youngest boy fondly and I roll back a little in my wheelchair. I still believe I can walk were I allowed, but whenever I try, Alfred seems to appear out of nowhere just to lecture me. Though two weeks had already passed and my dislocated shoulder had been pushed back into place, and my concussion no longer left me nauseous and disoriented, he wouldn't even hear of me possibly taking care of myself. And I can't help but feel pleased as he attends to me each day. Not out of pity or at Bruce's request, but simply because he cares about my wellbeing. He doesn't treat my departure as some kind of betrayal or abandonment. I can see that he doesn't resent me for what I had set out to do and I doubt he would even if I had succeeded. Though he also wouldn't have defended my actions- he couldn't.

I ease my feet down onto the floor, leaning forward a little in my chair just to stretch my aching back. As if he had been watching and waiting out of my line of sight, Alfred appears at my left, his hands clasped behind his back. "What do you think you're doing? You better not be getting up," he scolds, looking down at me suspiciously.

"Just stretching, good sir. I swear," I assure him quickly, purposely resting back in the chair and holding up my hand in surrender. There is no arguing with him. No point in initiating any kind of debate. He is bound to win every time.

"I should hope so," he sniffs, bending down to inspect my injuries. "But I don't think you'll require the chair for much longer."

"What about me? How much longer do I have to stay bedridden?" Damian demands, his lip curling in frustration. As soon as he could stay conscious for more than an hour, he began to resent his bed and loathe being taken care of.

"You'll be upgraded to a wheelchair as soon as your ribs heal, Master Damian. Do you require any more painkillers?"

"Not right now," Damian responds stubbornly but visibly winces as he sits up more.

"I don't appreciate you lying to me, Damian. It doesn't benefit either of us."

Damian sighs, quickly admitting defeat. "I could probably use some painkillers. Please."

"He said 'please' and everything. You must feel honoured, Alfred," I joke.

"I feel very special," he agrees with a subtle smile and he turns to leave.

Dick's phone begins to ring and he digs it from his pocket. "Need me to suit up again, Bruce?"

Damian and I eye each other, the disappointment and intense boredom plain in our expressions. Nearly every night for the past two weeks, Dick has been working as Nightwing alongside Batman. Together they watch over the city, attending to Commissioner Gordon's every beck and call (something that I had outright refused to do during my time as Batman). Damian and I both find ourselves missing him for the time he is away, though also reassured that Bruce is safest with Dick at his side.

"Yeah okay, I'll meet you there," Dick agrees and hangs up. "Two Face has broken into the GCPD trying to retrieve his coin from evidence lockup," he explains to us and pushes his chair back into its position against the wall.

"You don't mind working with him again?" I ask uncertainly.

"Surprisingly, no. It's almost like I'm a kid again when it was all new and exciting and he wasn't so cold and harsh," Dick actually seems pleased to be going out there again. "The other night, he actually stopped me to say that I was forgiven. That I always had been."

"That sounds like a big deal."

"It is. Coming from him."

I can tell that a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders. An emotional burden that had been dragging him down like stones in his pockets. He'd never ventured so far as to ask for the forgiveness he so desperately needed, instead allowing the guilt to eat away at him. And he debated whether to distance himself or linger like a bad smell, not knowing which would best demonstrate the regrets that Bruce had refused to hear.

I know that changed the exact moment Damian was kidnapped by Joker. It was then that Bruce realised just how fragile his family was, and how easy it would be for someone he cared about to be there one day and gone the next.

He couldn't bear the thought of Dick dying without there first being some kind of reconciliation.

"I better go. His patience is as limited as ever," Dick pardons himself. "But I'm going to practice this game and then we'll have a rematch. Deal?"

"You're on," I agree and wave good bye, watching his back as he leaves. I turn to Damian. "I guess it's just you and me now, kid."

"How did I ever get so lucky?" Damian rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.

"Must be fate throwing you a bone," I suggest.

"Perhaps. Or maybe fate is just playing yet another cruel trick on me," he counters with a challenging quirk of his eyebrow.

"Don't forget that you're stuck in that bed. I could make life a living nightmare for you if you don't start sucking up to me," I threaten with a dark laugh.

"I'm not even going to risk it. Um… those bags under your eyes look designer, and that new greasy hair style really suits you."

"You're pushing it, kid. You should keep one eye open tonight while you sleep. Or maybe I'll just slip some laxatives into your tea."

"That's harsh."

"Yeah, well. I am harsh," I remind him and we both laugh. "Has your dad been talking to you?" I ask once we have both settled down.

"Every day," he nods, "it's been kind of weird actually. Though it's okay, I guess." He shrugs his shoulders casually. Noncommittally. But I can tell how much it truly means to him.

"Don't act like you're not pleased," I tell him, "there's no shame in wanting to be closer to your father"

"What about you?"

"What? My father?"

"No. Has Bruce been talking to you since…?" He lets the sentence fade into silence. I had told him everything; all that I had done and what, when faced with my demons, I had failed to do. While he had no comments to share, choosing instead to keep any and all judgements to himself, he knew Bruce may not be as forgiving.

"Not once," I admit, trying to seem less defeated than I actually feel.

"Don't act like you're not hurt," Damian tells me. I hate when he turns the mirror on me like that: force feeding me my own words. That's why he does it. He knows just how it itches under my skin, taunting me with an irritation I can't simply scratch away. It leaves me with little choice but to face what I often dish out but refuse to take.

"Okay. I'm hurt. Satisfied?" I bite.

"I'm not looking for any kind of satisfaction. You told me you wanted to be more open and I'm simply helping you do that. You don't mind people calling you out on your bullshit as long as it's all a part of the game. When it's all in good fun. As soon as it gets real, you shut off." Damian nostrils flare as he breaths heavily through his sparked anger.

There's a long, tense silence as we stare one another down, stubbornly waiting for the other to break first. It must be my old age finally creeping up on me, because I am the one to look away and my shoulders fall slack. I'm too tired to fight anymore. Not with him. Damian could fight forever and never tire.

The sharp glint in his eye is blinked away once he sees that I have eased up and he settles back against his pillow. I hadn't seen him stiffly sit up in the first place. The vein in Alfred's head would probably burst if he saw just how tense I made the boy and I would most certainly be shooed from the room, lest I interfere with his recovery.

"He knows I didn't lose. I gave up," I mumble finally, "I didn't think he'd still be so… angry."

"You had still set out to do it, Selina. He isn't going to just let that slide," Damian says, "not to mention, you were teaming up with Jason the whole time."

"Not the whole time," I'm quick to try and defend myself. "And I certainly wouldn't call it a team. There was very little trust involved. Or even any fondness for one another. Really, we were a grudging pair."

"I know you don't actually believe that makes any difference whatsoever," Damian looks at me knowingly. "Just as you know saying otherwise won't fix anything. It won't make you feel any better, and it won't make Bruce like you more either."

"I hate it when you're right," I grumble. Alfred comes back into the room with food for the both of us, and pain medication for Damian.

"What's Master Damian right about this time? Alfred asks apprehensively, setting the tray down between us. "From what I understand from past experience; you both struggle from poor judgement. So I think it's fair to say that 'right' is a loose term in this case."

"Damian was just saying how he is far prettier than I am," I blink innocently.

"Humble, Master Damian. As ever," Alfred sniffs, smoothly joining in on the joke without any hesitation. Damian huffs, and picks at his sandwich fussily. "You better not be picking out the tomato," Alfred lectures.

"She doesn't eat tomato either and you don't attack her for it," Damian accuses, dropping his three slices of tomato onto his plate with a look of disgust. I grin and copy him, setting my own tomato aside and Alfred promptly takes it away without argument.

"That's because she's an adult and can make her own bad choices," he explains and I roll my eyes. Somehow he finds a way to lecture me without actually lecturing me. It's a skill I can't help but admire just as much as I detest it.

"I appreciate how you respect my free will," I remark sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Alfred says and watches as Damian swallows his painkillers and then takes the empty glass of water from him. "I think we ought to let Damian sleep now. Don't you agree, Miss Kyle?"

I wordlessly gather up the cards and drop them down onto my lap, holding the remainder of my sandwich in my mouth. Alfred steps behind me and turns my wheelchair around so I'm facing the door.

"He'll come round, Selina," Damian says, "he just needs some time first."

I take the sandwich from between my teeth and bite my lip, gesturing for Alfred to keep walking since he had stopped. "Contrary to popular belief, time doesn't heal all wounds, Damian. It won't."

Alfred wheels me out of the room, resting one of his hands on my shoulder and he gives it a gentle squeeze.

"It can't," I whisper dejectedly to myself.


	24. Chapter 24

After I healed, I took to the city on my own. Gotham took me back with open arms, her embrace far too tight. She held me close and I knew then that she would never let go. But there were conditions to my return. I had to start anew. I had to start with nothing and build from there with no tools except my own two hands. I had to do right this time. And Gotham, with all her cruel intent, would do everything she could to interfere.

Something kept picking at the stitches that repressed my memories. The invisible knife that carved away at every good thought and every inch of self-forgiveness. Somehow, I couldn't make positivity stick. Opportunity felt sparse. It had been so long—too long- since I had been this low. Had I even been able to remember where to begin, I was just far too exhausted to try.

The manor became stifling. The too big rooms swallowing me with their wretched emptiness. Even the boys couldn't, with time, make it feel like a home. So I left. Though Alfred insisted I come to visit, I find myself going back to that place less and less. And not because the sense of family I had with them is gone; because it isn't. It never will be. It's because I know I break them a little more each time I leave. It's easier to talk to them on the phone when I can't see their faces fall when I hang up.

I tell them I'm busy. I promise that I'm staying out of trouble. And for a while that was true. I worked as a waitress for five months, allowing the mundane to consume my time and bore me into a sense stasis. Each day passed as an unfulfilling blur, the chatter of customers fading into an ever-present buzzing sound in my ears. Nobody had anything important to say.

I became surrounded by those I despised: the ones that can afford not to care. I took their tips with a grain of salt, pocketing just enough to pay less than a third of my rent, and then I would watch as the busboys cleared the tables, scraping almost entire meals worth of leftover food into the trash.

Every night I would pour their upmarket champagne or vintage wine and listen to their drunken babble as they boasted about their extravagant lives. Until I had to tune them out just to keep myself from spitting in their food.

I learned of my co-workers, some of whom worked three jobs just to keep their families fed. I stood in silence as their hours were cut as punishment each time they took a night off to care for their sick child or to combat an illness of their own. I never argued the unfair work practices that went on there—I couldn't afford to. Eventually, however, I went against my own best interests and quit, and I had to start again from square one.

After that I worked in retail. This, I discovered, was easier. I could be more forgiving of lazy customers who would leave clothes on the floor of the fitting room, or petulant shoppers trying to return items without their receipt. It was harmless. Annoying, yes, but excessive? No. This was easier until the owner accused me of taking money from the till though I had never taken a cent. It was strange having the finger pointed at me the one time I hadn't committed the crime. And it stung. It enraged me how I can't get it straight even when I try. Just when I thought I'd learned the trick to it all. The harsh reality is that I can never win. Hell, I can barely even survive. Because those with enough power can break what they like and take what they want from people who have very little to lose.

Before I could quit, the owner fired me, pointing me to the door with no questions asked. And then when Alfred asked how my new job was going, I lied and said it was good. I told him it was draining sometimes but it was fulfilling. I lied and said I didn't need any extra cash from him. I lied and said I was eating three meals a day and that I even had enough money to afford cable TV.

Eventually he believed me and stopped offering a bed at the mansion. I slept on the floor of my small apartment in the dodgy outskirts of the city. Sometimes water would leak through the ceiling from the apartment above mine, dripping incessantly into the buckets I put out. My lights would flicker and then turn off for an hour or so at a time no matter how I fiddled with the bulbs or the power box. My nightly four hour sleep was often interrupted by the sound of rats scurrying through the walls.

I refused Alfred's hospitality because this was my life. It wasn't grand. Hell, it barely counted as living. But it was still mine. Which is why I found myself reaching for my old uniform. I just held it at first, rubbing the material with my thumb before tucking it away again. I hadn't worn it in over a year. I hadn't felt like Catwoman for even longer than that. But now she was getting hungry. Not just a literal hunger for a meal to feast on. It was more than a need for a proper bed to sleep in. Catwoman didn't want to be caught standing in front of a mugger again with nothing worth stealing.

The man had blinked in surprise, lowering his knife and backing away as if embarrassed by the whole interaction. I hadn't felt any fear in standing in a dark alleyway alone with an armed man. Instead I had felt some kind of misplaced shame. Shame in the bad luck that stuck to me like a bad smell or gum on the bottom of my shoe. Shame for being so lost that nobody, not even those desperate enough, could find me. Not really. I was as empty inside as my pockets were of cash. It was a position I had been in many times before, but it never became any easier or any less humiliating.

This wasn't the person I wanted to be: trampled by the rich, unable to give anything to the poor. But every time I held that Catwoman suit in my hands, I remembered what her wildness and spontaneity had done to me and the life it had taken. That memory was all that stopped me from putting it on, even just to look at myself in the mirror.

Tonight, I stand outside a bar in the sweltering summer heat. I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, pulling at the collar of my shirt uncomfortably. The sun had set hours ago but the heat hadn't yet dissipated, the air thick and humid.

I surely didn't look a picture going inside with my resume: shirt stained with perspiration, hair greasy and in disarray. The bartender had taken the resume between two fingers, placing it down somewhere behind the bar. I had sat down to have a drink of water. While sitting there, I saw the same bartender overfill a pint of beer and then use my resume to mop up the spill, scrunching up the paper and then throwing away the wet ball. I lowered my head with a heavy sigh, tracing the rim of my glass with my pinkie finger.

I couldn't help but feel small. And the smell of alcohol stung my nose and left me dizzy as if intoxicated by the fumes. It was too familiar. Too haunting. Yet I found myself tempted to taste it for the first time. The promise of escape appealed to me; the desire to feel numb was almost overwhelming. After all these years fighting it, I started to collapse into the image of my father passed out on the couch. How peaceful he must have been. At least until the painful truth of sobriety started to creep out from the shadows.

Without finishing my water, I left the bar, forcing myself away from the alcohol. And now, standing here, I realise that people divert their eyes when they walk past me. A woman seems to hesitate as she approaches the bar, keeping her gaze off to my left and she blindly reaches for the door handle. I open it for her, standing aside so she has room to enter but still she won't make eye contact. She doesn't thank me and brushes by me like I am made of air.

I've become one of the overlooked.

People avoid me out of fear of somehow catching my poverty. Though being poor in this city is as common as catching a cold. The air is thick with it; polluted. And I think: how dare they?! It's these people who make us—the downtrodden—who we are. It's the dirty looks they cast at the floor, too disgusted to even look us in the face. They want to make us move but won't say so out of some kind of nausea at the very idea of acknowledging our existence. Speaking to us would make us human. They don't want to believe that maybe we aren't so different after all. Because that would mean this could happen to them just as easily as it did us.

That's the nightmare.

That's what we personify. And we walk the streets like ghosts. Aimless. Fleeting. Tormented.

We terrify them. Just as much as they enrage us.

A man walks past wearing a dark suit and a navy tie. It looks expensive: designer. The cuff links alone must have cost far more than what they're worth, and I see the flash of a Rolex on his wrist as he gently sways his brief case at his side. I watch him as he briefly catches my eye and then his gaze travels the length of my body, appraising me, and he mustn't like what he sees as he too diverts his eyes and shakes his head a little. He quickens his pace and tightens his grip on the handle of his briefcase, drawing it closer to his leg as if afraid I may just reach out and take it from him.

He turns the corner, checking his watch before disappearing from my sight, and I follow him. Sweat trickles down the back of my shirt as I walk beneath the dim streetlights, breathing in the warm summer air with a new sense of focus. I want to know what this man felt was worthy of a thief's attention. What it is he wants to keep safe.

I see him trying to hail for a taxi but the car drives by him without pause and he turns, watching it as it passes, and then he sees me trailing him. I remain cool, nonchalant, keeping my distance and I walk at a steady pace. He hesitates for a moment, scratching at his chin, debating whether to call for help or to keep going as he was. Right now, he can't be sure that I'm following him. But it won't take him long to figure it out. There's only so far I can walk behind him without my intentions becoming clear.

At first he only looks back every two minutes or so, but by the time we have walked two blocks together, his eyes dart back to me every few seconds, almost causing him to stumble over his own feet. Still, I can't discern where it is he is going and I think maybe he has diverted to another path in an attempt to shake me. But now he's distanced himself from civilization and the busy roads where someone would see if he were being cornered. The streets turn darker the further we get from city lights. I hasten my steps, closing the distance between us and he starts to get really nervous. He wipes his sweaty hands on his expensive trousers, too shaken to worry about staining them. Then he makes a mistake and turns down a dead end road, trapping himself. I stride right up to him and grab at his tie, twisting the material into my fist.

"What's in the briefcase, Twitchy?" I ask, pulling him down a little by his tie so he's closer to my height. His knees tremble and I can feel his heavy breath on the back of my hand. Up close I can see the fine sheen of sweat lining his upper lip, but his actual lips are dry and cracked. His tongue darts out to lick them but there's no moisture there either. He swallows thickly and his eyes shift back and forth fretfully. I've never seen a man get so weak so quickly. It gives me a sudden rush of adrenaline. One like I haven't felt for a very, very long time. "Well, spit it out. Or did your Harvard education forget to teach you how to speak?"

"I…I went to Yale," he stammers pathetically then seems to find his voice. "I have money. Y…you can take it. All of it."

"That would be a kind offer if it were actually some kind of sacrifice," I spit at him, baring my teeth. He flinches. "It would be far too easy to take your money and let you go. Worse, it would be hollow. Worthless."

"Then what do you want?" His eyes are wet and pleading.

"Ultimately? Retribution. A rebellion. But for starters, what's in that briefcase?"

"N…nothing, I swear!"

"So you carry around an empty briefcase? For what? Aesthetic? Status?"

"No. No, just business papers," he quickly corrects himself and he drops the case down onto the ground. "You have to believe me."

"You sure seemed scared of me taking it from you," I point out and push his back against the wall. He winces, trying to shift away from the bricks. "What was it? My clothes? My sallow, starved cheeks? The desperation in my eyes?"

He doesn't answer me, his mouth opening and closing weakly without letting out a sound. I push my arm against his throat and his head hits the wall with a hard thump. His legs near buckle beneath him. It's a wonder how he's still standing.

"What was it?!" I demand, my voice echoing down the empty road.

"I…I don't know! Instinct…" he cries, his hand reaching up to grab my arm but it hovers over my wrist, too terrified to touch me. "Please, I'll give you whatever you want."

"You keep trying to give me stuff. As if money can fix everything. That's the problem with you people. As soon as something gets broken, you think you can just throw money at it and make it all go away. Like it's that simple. That's all the poor ever do! We throw all that we have at it and watch it all waste away before our very eyes."

"I'm sorry?" He seems lost as his eyes search my face, trying hopelessly to understand what, if not his money, I am looking for. They never understand.

"Open the case," I demand and withdraw my arm from his throat. He slips down against the bricks, collapsing in a heap at my feet. Cowering below me, he reaches for the briefcase and shakily undoes the clasps. I kneel down to his level, pulling the open case from his loose grip. But there's nothing in it aside from disorganised papers, an unopened protein bar and a pornographic magazine. His cheeks redden as I pick up the magazine between two fingers. The pages are worn, the corners bent as if they had been turned often. I flick through the images quickly, quirking an eyebrow before setting it aside. The blush intensifies in his cheeks, heat spreading up into his ears and tinting them red too.

"Well, clearly you're busy getting paid for doing a job, but not quite the one you were hired for," I comment. He bows his head, overwhelmed by the indignity.

I rifle through the papers, only to find the unimportant ramblings of a marketing report. I skim over the words in a desperate search for something significant; anything that could be considered valuable information. But there's nothing. Disgruntled, I toss the papers back into the case, slamming it shut and I run my hand over my mouth and chin. I'm perspiring worse now, my heart hammering inside my chest, emotionally beaten by my own humiliation.

I had targeted this man for nothing. He'd committed no crimes. Probably too busy fondling himself in the semi-privacy of his office cubicle to plot anything sinister.

Lost, I grab his arm and unfasten the Rolex from his wrist. "I'm taking this for my troubles," I tell him firmly and he nods timidly, slowly angling himself to my right. His watch, despite its expense, is worthless to him. It's replaceable. I can hardly remember what that felt like. Never having to fear starvation or homelessness. What had he done to deserve it?

"Get out of here. Before I change my mind." I stand up, giving him an escape route and he scurries through it, escaping down the street without looking back. I look at the watch in my hand and suddenly wish I had never taken it. I can see that it's real, I can feel the weight of it in my palm, but never before has anything so rich seemed so cheap.


	25. Chapter 25

When I walk home, tail between my legs like a dejected puppy, I drop the watch into the money tin of an old man sitting on the curb of my street. His eyes are clouded, either partially or completely blind, and he turns his head at the sound.

"A man named Jackson walks this block every week," I tell him, "he'll buy that watch from you. He has a voice like nails on a chalkboard and you can't help but hear him coming from a mile away. He's impossible to miss." He nods faintly, reaching into the tin with trembling fingers to clasp the watch in his hand and he slips it into the pocket of his tattered coat.

I go inside my apartment without the intention of staying long. Just long enough to change into my uniform; giving full rein to Catwoman and her wicked ways. There has always been something freeing about her. Something wild that, truth be told, I don't want to tame. I'd always walked the border of right and wrong, sometimes stumbling further into one side or the other, but I always found my way back. And I never felt the need to explain myself. At least not before I wore that damn cape and cowl.

Was it the uniform that instilled a strange, new sense of morality within me?

Or was it just another desperate, unconscious effort for Bruce's approval?

I'd like to blame the former because it seems like the least degrading of the two. At least then I won't have to feel so guilty for reverting back to my old ways.

I stop in my tracks, standing stock still in startled awe of the man idling in my poor excuse of a kitchen. He has his back to me, his leather jacket looking filthier under the unflattering, yellow light; the material marked with dried mud and something that looks suspiciously like blood. His boots have tracked dirt on my floor, leading in from the front door and leaving a tell-tale trail through every room. I frown, edging towards my bedroom and peering inside. My makeshift bed (a long, thin foam pad) is in disarray the way I left it, blankets thrown together into a tangled pile at the foot of the mattress. My clothes are still strewn all over the floor, their hangers left bare in the open closet. The same closet that was closed when I left the apartment only a few hours earlier.

"You looked through my things?" I call out, infuriated at the invasion of my privacy. "There are rules about looking through a girl's panty drawer, you know. The first rule is: you don't do it. The second rule is: you don't do it."

"There wasn't exactly much to see," Jason points out smoothly, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "I had to take a look. Curiosity killed the cat and all that."

"Isn't that my line?" I grumble, picking up my dirty clothes and tossing them onto the floor of my closet in a redundant effort to hide my shame. It's too late to take back what he has already seen.

"Probably," he shrugs and walks back out to the kitchen, his eyes slowly travelling across the length of the room with bored curiosity. I follow him. "So this is where you live now?"

"This is called breaking and entering, Jason." I state plainly. He picks up an out of date bottle of sauce. I quickly take it from his hands and put it back on the counter. He rolls his eyes and turns his back on me once more.

How dare he fondle my expired condiments?

"The door was open. Therefore, there was no breaking, only entering," he corrects me, opening my fridge and peering inside. The power must have shorted sometime during the day, because the interior of the fridge is warm. He picks up my half empty carton of milk and gives it a suspicious sniff, wrinkling his nose at the sour odour. Again, I am quick to take it away from him, placing it back in the fridge door and I push it shut. I turn my back to it, barricading it from him.

"That isn't an invitation for you to wander inside whenever you feel like it." I had stopped locking my door after the first two weeks living here, in which my apartment had been broken into twice and then left untouched when they discovered there was nothing to steal.

At least now I'll never have to know when a stranger has come in without permission.

Ignorance really is bliss.

I gesture to the front door, silently indicating that he ought to leave. He either doesn't take the hint, or he ignores it. With an attitude like his? It most certainly is the latter.

"What happened with living at the mansion? Did Bruce kick you out?" he asks, unable to conceal the malicious joy that the very idea gives him. His lips upturn at the corners, creases forming around his eyes as he tries to hide a smile.

"If you must know, I left."

"You left?" he looks incredulous. "To live here? In this dump?"

"Yes. This is my dump that you're talking about. The least you could do is to treat it with some respect. Spare my feelings."

"Why'd you leave?"

"The manor made me claustrophobic," I answer tonelessly, gesturing again to the door; this time with more severity. Again, he ignores it.

"The eleven bedroom, eight bathroom mansion with its own grand hall, study and library, was too confining for you? I thought you'd like it. All the glitz and glamour. Plenty of silverware to slip into your pockets."

It really was a hopeless lie, I'll admit. But surely he, as someone who grew up orphaned and impoverished, can understand the way Wayne Manor could make you feel. How it somehow, inexplicably, made its occupants seem so small. Insignificant. Like I was a ghost involuntarily vanishing through walls all the time; passing by unseen.

"It was like living in a museum. Everything is the same shade of beige and it's always freezing cold no matter how many times I fiddle with the thermostat, and your voice echoes even at a whisper. It was like there were invisible signs all over the place warning me not to touch anything," I explain feverishly, wringing my hands together. "This… this is much more comfortable."

Jason sniffs the room and wipes his nose with his sleeve, "It smells like something died in here."

"Probably a dead rat in the walls," I say, unconcerned. I got used to the pungent stench a long time ago. I probably leave the house with the smell clinging to my hair and clothes all the time without ever being able to notice it anymore. "As 'lovely' as your company is, you have failed to tell me why you are here."

"Just wanted to check in and see how well you healed up. Shame they couldn't fix that, you know?"

"Fix what?"

He waves his hand at my face, his expression twisting into that of controlled disgust. I blink in surprise, reflexively leaning away from him.

"That's just my face. As it has always looked," I sigh, unamused.

He winces dramatically and places his hand on my shoulder. The same shoulder that had taken weeks to heal from dislocation but still, to this day, never felt right. I think he's well aware of it too as he gives it a tight squeeze. "I'm so sorry to hear that. But look on the bright side... The sight of you must make people feel very charitable."

"No. They just avoid looking at me. Lest I sicken them."

"That's why you're stealing again," He says it matter-of-factly. Completely void of any doubt. I shrug his hand from my shoulder purposefully.

How could he possibly know what I was about to do? Had he followed me and conceptualised my plans just from the stolen watch? Or am I that transparent?

"I'm not stealing."

"Hmm, maybe not. But you're thinking about it, aren't you? I found your uniform."

"It's a sentimental thing. You wouldn't understand," I sniff. Always on the defensive. Always lying. "You should tell me what you want before I call the cops."

"Go ahead, call them. Neighbourhood like this? They'll just laugh and hang up."

He isn't wrong. There is no way they would respond to a call around here. Were they to enter The Bowery suburb, they'd never leave. Not alive at least. This dreadful place is near uninhabitable even for those who grew up here; the streets rife with violence and crime. Any ordinary day out there could very well be your last.

"Look, my intentions are quite simple. Harmless. I came to check on you," he explains, eager for me to believe him. I consider him for a moment, apprehensive, before shaking my head. Back in Matthew's bedroom, I'd concluded that Jason was as monstrous as the monstrosities he hunted. There barely seemed to be even a shred of empathy behind that red helmet of his.

"You used me to get to Matthew Carter. You manoeuvred me like a puppet on strings; knowing I could very well die."

"I don't want you to take my indifference as an act of disinclination," he murmurs gently.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't nudge you towards Matthew with the intention of getting you killed… I just didn't really care whether you lived or died."

"Oh, well now that that's cleared up, we can be friends again," I remark sarcastically, trying to push him towards the door but he stands tall over me, his feet unmoving.

"We were never friends, Selina. That much you knew already."

"So you came all this way just to tell me: 'hey, I didn't give a fuck if I got you killed. But that's okay because it isn't like I wanted to kill you'. That's real kind of you, Jason. But it was an assurance I didn't need or ask for. You can leave now."

"Look. You were the only one that could infiltrate his security. I needed you to get inside. If you'd killed him, that would have been a win-win for the both of us. Instead you flaked out and I killed him. I crossed him off my list and you don't have to fret about him anymore. A win-win for the both of us. Can't you be happy about that?"

"You toyed with me to get what you wanted," I accuse.

"And what is it you think you do, huh? Ask nicely? No, you flirt your way out of speeding tickets or flash a little cleavage to get some leeway from the police. I manipulate and you entice."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? So you don't sway your hips and bat your eyelashes at Bruce to seduce him into forgiving you?"

"I thought you came here to offer a bizarre non-apology, not to attack me for what Bruce and I do behind closed doors. What is it you really came here to say?"

He stops. His mouth hangs partially open but no words are coming out. I see his hands tightening into fists at his sides and he shifts his weight slowly from one foot to the other. Is that confusion I see? Uncertainty in his eyes?

That look of feeling lost. He so often seems unsure as to what he truly wants. Like his course gets so easily interrupted by a small bump in the road. He isn't really sure why he came here.

Emotions are a fickle thing. He hasn't yet learned how understand his.

"You earned his forgiveness without ever saying sorry," he says finally, his nostrils flaring.

"So this is about Bruce?"

"Isn't it always?"

"Not for me. Not that it's any of your business, but what Bruce and I have. Had. It wasn't a game. If it was then, well, I didn't know the rules. He hasn't forgiven you because you aren't worthy of forgiveness. So don't you dare think I have done something shallow to earn it."

He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers and turns his back to me. "I shouldn't have come here."

"You think?" I scoff. "You know where the door is. Don't let it hit you on the way out."

He walks swiftly to the door but his hand stops on the handle. "Did he say anything about me? You know… after?"

"Honestly? He hasn't said a damn word to me about anything," I confess. "But you know what, Jason? I realised something. Something that I think you actually learned a long time ago. Bruce tends to listen but he doesn't really hear us. So why should it matter what he thinks?"

"You're angry?"

My lips turn up on one side in a cynical smile. "I don't want you to take my indifference as an act of disinclination."

"I hate it when people feed me my own words," he mutters and opens the door.

"Yes, and I hate it when people break into my home and sniff my sour milk. Now we're both unhappy."

Jason laughs lightly. "Welcome back, Catwoman," he says knowingly and steps outside, closing the door behind him.

"We'll meet again, Red Hood," I say to myself. He and I are bound to cross paths again in the future, whether it be coincidence or to hunt one another down. Perhaps one day I'll cross some kind of line and he'll add my name to his kill list. Or maybe I'll kill him first. It's possible he may just annoy me enough. If he makes rifling through my underwear drawer a regular activity.

But I'd be lying if I said he hadn't helped me. He saw things with a perspective quite like my own and it estranges us from the others. Like me as a small child trying to see through my mother's eyes, the boys try and see through mine, but it's like putting on someone else's prescription glasses and then wondering why everything is blurry. You can never truly walk the same road as someone else. You can try, but the scenery will always be different.

He and I are as close as we are apart, and that's why I have little doubt that we will indeed meet again. But I know we'll both, when that day comes, wish that we hadn't. We're worse when we're together. We get under each other's skin.

Together, we become the worst versions of ourselves.

But maybe our meeting tonight is the push that I needed. The push back onto the tightrope between good and bad. Now I can tiptoe along that line and feel little to no regard as to which way I fall. Jason has opened the door for Catwoman, and now I feel free from the cage Bruce and his family put me in. I feel less inclined to do what's best for them rather than what's best for me. And I smile, knowing that by the end of tonight, I can finally feast on the freedom I have been hungry for. After tonight, I can have it all.

I change into my uniform, turning left and right to see it in my cracked bathroom mirror. The sight of me, clad in the clothes that feel more like a second skin, fills me with courage. A rush of adrenaline. A flashback to simpler times where I didn't only survive, but I also thrived. A recovered memory of being in control.

When I walk back out that door, I feel reborn.

The night is mine.


	26. Chapter 26 (FINAL)

"I didn't want to believe it was you," he sounds so sad. Disappointed. But there's a hint of controlled recognition as if he knew all along not to expect anything less of me. After all, for all these years he had been trying to tame me without much success. If anything, he had further tempted me to commit bad deeds; at least on quiet weeknights when there hadn't been much to do and I got bored. Or if I wanted to see him. He isn't easy to contact without the use of a big, bright bat signal.

I smile sheepishly, knowing just what to expect when I turn around. He stands tall and stiff, his arms tense at his sides and his cape billows at his back in the wind. I can't look past his jaw though, all sharp edges and restrained fury. That's the jaw I've stained with the colour of my lipstick when I kissed him, and that's the stubble of his chin that I've felt against my neck when he trailed his lips over my skin. I know these features intimately, and I can't help but feel drawn to them. I miss being able to see the sharp edges soften when he didn't know I was looking.

"But you just knew, didn't you?" I say knowingly, gesturing for him to come closer. He doesn't hesitate to stand at my side, his eyes diverted to the city skyline. Does he see Gotham the same way I do? Stunning from afar, horrid and cruel up close. Or does he retain more hope for this world than I do? It's hard to tell whether he's just optimistic or if I'm too pessimistic.

"It was so seamless," he explained, "too perfect not to be you."

"That almost sounded like a compliment."

"In a twisted way, it was," he agrees, but he doesn't try to take it back. "So why now? After all we have been through?"

"We? I'm pretty sure we had very different lives this year," I crouch down, looking not at the lights of Gotham as she flickers with life, but instead at the pavement below. There, I left a little present for Harley.

"Okay. Then what about after all you have been through?"

"That's why. Because of all I've been through," I answer and he crouches down beside me, following my train of sight curiously.

"What are we waiting for?"

"Just watch."

I smile and Bruce's posture turns tense once he sees Harley exit the building. He reaches towards his utility belt for a batarang but I catch his hand and shake my head in warning. "Pull the stick from your ass just for one night, and watch."

He mutters something under his breath irritably, but does as he's told and waits. It isn't hard to tell that I'm testing his patience, and though he came here rather peacefully, he may not be able to leave in the same manner.

Harley picks up the parcel from the doorstep and rips away the paper like a little kid on Christmas morning, squealing in delight as she wields the wooden mallet that had been stolen from her for the Mirror House auction. I grin, watching her as she peppers the mallet with kisses, skipping up and down on the spot before giving it a few test swings.

"You broke into GCPD evidence lockup just to give Harley her mallet back?" Bruce asks incredulously. "Wasn't it too easy for you? Too boring?"

"No. Look how happy she is," I tell him honestly and stand upright. "Harley is the reason Damian and I are alive. You should give her some credit."

"And a free pass?" he asks, casting me a sidelong look.

"Is that too much to ask?" I give him a stern look, my jaw tensing. "You give me a free pass all the time."

"And it always comes back to bite me," he points out and laughs. Actually laughs. The sound startles me and my jaw slackens. I blink in surprise. "Just as I think I'm starting to understand you, you go and do something completely unexpected."

"We've been playing that game for a long time, now," I say, deadpan. "You should expect the unexpected."

He nods solemnly, "I'll try to remember that." He appraises me carefully, looking me up and down and tilting his head to the side a little in apprehension of my attire. "So you are back, huh?"

"Is that a problem?" I raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

"Only time will tell," he decides, not willing to commit to any straight answer.

"It fits me better."

"Well, I wouldn't say better. I'd say it fits you… differently."

"You must have known the cape and cowl wasn't right for me when you asked me to wear it. You must have realised that putting on the shoe doesn't magically make it fit," I say dejectedly.

"I didn't know. I was just hoping that it would help you see yourself differently," he sighs.

"It did. So different in fact, that I didn't see myself there at all."

Bruce recoils a little and nods his head abjectly, casting his gaze to the ground. He can hear the confusion in my voice, he can feel the absolute hurt in my words. He tried to change me but instead I simply broke. I saw the world through his eyes and found it to be just as corrupt. He inadvertently taught me that there was no changing this life, there is only drowning beneath it or swimming with the current.

"It was my mistake. I shouldn't have burdened you like that. I should have been clearer in my intentions," he admits, his voice softening. "You know what… this look does suit you better." He looks up at me, waiting to see my reaction.

The way he looks at me… I remember how easily I melt into him, how I move into his touch. I lure him in, but he doesn't even have to try pulling me in; I go to him without being asked.

"So a lot happened after you left?" Bruce asks gently. Perhaps I hadn't convinced Alfred of my wellbeing after all, because it certainly sounds as though Bruce knew all along that I hadn't been thriving.

"Just a bit," I lie, in a way that tells him I'm lying. Perhaps there was something to Matthew's assessment of me after all. "I might have told you all about it if you hadn't been busy saving Gotham one cracked skull at a time."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his shoulders slumping minutely. Only someone who really knew him would even notice the shift. It tells me he means it. This too comes as a surprise. Maybe this past year had in fact changed him as much as it had me.

"You should be," I sniff sourly and cross my arms. I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat, but the quiver in my voice betrays me. "I needed you. And you were right there. There in the next room. Yet you were still so far away from me." I approach him quickly, my finger pointed at him in accusation. "I tried to play by your rules, Bruce. I truly did. But this life has spit me back out. Not that you would understand. You can't. Even without your parents, you grew up in a life of privilege. I never had that chance."

"I'm sorry," he says again, his voice heavy with genuine regret. But it's too late for him to have nothing more to say. He twists his hands together guiltily, shrinking further down within himself.

"And? But? Anything you want to add?"

"You were working with Jason behind my back," he sighs deeply.

"'Working with' is a fairly loose term. It was more like 'working near' each other. Reluctantly."

"He isn't to be trusted, Selina. His mind has been twisted by The Joker. There's no telling what he'll do, or even what he is capable of."

I realise he isn't mad at me. He's concerned for me. His years of repressed emotions has left him incapable of distinguishing between the two. But I can see the difference.

"I'm a big girl," I say slyly, "I never trusted him, Bruce."

He considers me for a moment, weighing his words before choosing to utter them. "Do you trust me?"

"That depends. Do you trust me?"

"Honestly? With everything I have," he admits and I take two steps back. That look in his eye. The one I have only ever seen once before. The same look I'd been searching for all this time and now…

I've found it.

He's looking at me longingly. Lovingly.

"That seems a bit foolish," I stumble over my words, startled.

He knows. He understands. And he has accepted that there is just no changing me. The truth is, there's no part of me now that he would choose to alter: I'd be too different if he did.

"It's okay, Selina. It's okay. Want a head start?" he asks and gestures to the horizon with a gentle smile.

"You think I want to run away from this? From you?" I ask.

"I know you do. And I don't blame you. After everything that I did…"

"Bruce, about what I said all those months ago… That time has passed. I know you feel responsible for those children and I know you'll never forgive yourself for their deaths. It shouldn't matter what I think."

"But it does matter. Because you were right."

I cross my arms, looking down at my feet. "And you were right about Matthew. How about we call it even?"

He considers me for a moment and then smiles. "I'd like that… so… head start?"

I relax, a reciprocating smile sweeping through me. "Don't need one."

He laughs, the sound like music to my ears. I leap from the rooftop and crack my whip, swinging to the fire escape of the adjacent building. I feel a quick rush of adrenaline, excitement tingling from my fingers to my toes.

I can hear him not too far behind. It had been so long since we had last done this, and I had forgotten just how thrilling it could be. There's a lot we are choosing not to utter. Dark truths that pain us, and sharp lies we spit to hide them. It's the cruel reality we live in where I am a criminal and he is justice personified.

We don't work together like a yin and yang.

Together we blur the lines and imbalance the relationship. I've broken his heart by turning back to a life of crime, and he had broken mine by having turned me away from it in the first place.

While we know now never to repeat history, it tends to repeat itself anyway. We'll always find ourselves here. Here in the simplicity of him chasing me, toying with one another the way we used to.

Maybe he'll hold me differently in future, maybe his lips will trace my skin with a true desire to see how I taste. Maybe he'll lie beside me and let the world keep spinning without him for a little while. Maybe I'll come to learn whether he snores or what he sounds like when he first wakes up. Some things will be undoubtedly different. I don't think we can look beyond this past year so entirely, but I know we can't throw everything away and start anew. We can't pretend that we met in a coffee shop or had a first date at the movies where we shared a bucket of popcorn and drank from the same straw. What we have, whatever that may be, won't ever be like that.

But it won't be quite like this either. This is us as we truly are.

For now, we decide to enjoy this while it lasts.

We are one, if only for tonight. And together we run through Gotham's dark, beautiful streets: the Cat and her Bat.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading, guys! This is the final chapter of this story and I am so glad I could share it with you. I spent about a year working on it (with some off periods where I wouldn't even touch it for a while). I don't think it's perfect by any means, but I'm happy that I finished it. I've wanted to be a writer since I was about 10 years old if not younger, but I lost confidence in my work over the years (particularly in high school), so writing this and posting it has been so beneficial for me.

Maybe this story didn't end the way you expected, and to be honest I didn't know for a long time what the details of this ending was going to be. But I planned all along for her to go back to being Catwoman. But is that a good thing? After all, a major theme in this story is the idea of history always repeating itself.

Let me know what you thought in the comments :) And thanks again for reading.


End file.
